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From heart to heart is stealing,

       From earth to man, from man to earth,

       — It is the hour of feeling.

      One moment now may give us more

       Than fifty years of reason;

       Our minds shall drink at every pore

       The spirit of the season.

      Some silent laws our hearts may make,

       Which they shall long obey;

       We for the year to come may take

       Our temper from to-day.

      And from the blessed power that rolls

       About, below, above;

       We’ll frame the measure of our souls,

       They shall be tuned to love.

      Then come, my sister! come, I pray,

       With speed put on your woodland dress,

       And bring no book; for this one day

       We’ll give to idleness.

SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN, WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED

       Table of Contents

      In the sweet shire of Cardigan,

       Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,

       An old man dwells, a little man,

       I’ve heard he once was tall.

       Of years he has upon his back,

       No doubt, a burthen weighty;

       He says he is three score and ten,

       But others say he’s eighty.

      A long blue livery-coat has he,

       That’s fair behind, and fair before;

       Yet, meet him where you will, you see

       At once that he is poor.

       Full five and twenty years he lived

       A running huntsman merry;

       And, though he has but one eye left,

       His cheek is like a cherry.

      No man like him the horn could sound.

       And no man was so full of glee;

       To say the least, four counties round

       Had heard of Simon Lee;

       His master’s dead, and no one now

       Dwells in the hall of Ivor;

       Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;

       He is the sole survivor.

      His hunting feats have him bereft

       Of his right eye, as you may see:

       And then, what limbs those feats have left

       To poor old Simon Lee!

       He has no son, he has no child,

       His wife, an aged woman,

       Lives with him, near the waterfall,

       Upon the village common.

      And he is lean and he is sick,

       His little body’s half awry

       His ancles they are swoln and thick

       His legs are thin and dry.

       When he was young he little knew

       Of husbandry or tillage;

       And now he’s forced to work, though weak,

       — The weakest in the village.

      He all the country could outrun,

       Could leave both man and horse behind;

       And often, ere the race was done,

       He reeled and was stone-blind.

       And still there’s something in the world

       At which his heart rejoices;

       For when the chiming hounds are out,

       He dearly loves their voices!

      Old Ruth works out of doors with him,

       And does what Simon cannot do;

       For she, not over stout of limb,

       Is stouter of the two.

       And though you with your utmost skill

       From labour could not wean them,

       Alas! ‘tis very little, all

       Which they can do between them.

      Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,

       Not twenty paces from the door,

       A scrap of land they have, but they

       Are poorest of the poor.

       This scrap of land he from the heath

       Enclosed when he was stronger;

       But what avails the land to them,

       Which they can till no longer?

      Few months of life has he in store,

       As he to you will tell,

       For still, the more he works, the more

       His poor old ancles swell.

       My gentle reader, I perceive

       How patiently you’ve waited,

       And I’m afraid that you expect

       Some tale will be related.

      O reader! had you in your mind

       Such stores as silent thought can bring,

       O gentle reader! you would find

       A tale in every thing.

       What more I have to say is short,

       I hope you’ll kindly take it;

       It is no tale; but should you think,

       Perhaps a tale you’ll make it.

      One summer-day I chanced to see

       This old man doing all he could

       About the root of an old tree,

       A stump of rotten wood.

       The mattock totter’d in his hand;

       So vain was his endeavour

       That at the root of the old tree

       He might have worked for ever.

      “You’re overtasked, good Simon Lee,

       Give me your tool” to him I said;

       And at the word right gladly he

       Received my proffer’d aid.

       I struck, and with a single blow

       The tangled root I sever’d,

       At which the poor old man so long

       And vainly had endeavour’d.

      The tears into his eyes were brought,

       And thanks and praises seemed to run

       So fast out of his heart, I thought

       They never would have done.

       — I’ve heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds

       With coldness still returning.

       Alas! the gratitude of men

       Has oftner left me mourning.

ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS SHEWING HOW THE ART OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT

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