We for the year to come may take And from the blessèd power that rolls We'll frame the measure of our souls: Then come, my sister! come, I pray, TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. DEAR child of nature, let them rail! -There is a nest in a green dale, A harbour and a hold, Where thou, a wife and friend, shalt see Thy own delightful days, and be A light to young and old. There, healthy as a shepherd-boy, As if thy heritage were joy, And pleasure were thy trade, Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, Shalt show us how divine a thing A woman may be made. Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, But an old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night, Shall lead thee to thy grave. LINES, WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. I HEARD a thousand blended notes, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The birds around me hopp'd and play'd; The budding twigs spread out their fan. And I must think, do all I can, If I these thoughts may not prevent, SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN.. A long blue livery coat has he, Full five-and-twenty years he lived And, though he has but one eye left, No man like him the horn could sound, His master's dead, and no one now Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead: And he is lean and he is sick, His dwindled body's half awry; His ankles too are swoln and thick; His legs are thin and dry. When he was young, he little knew Of husbandry or tillage, And now is forced to work, though weak, He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the race was done, He reel'd and was stone-blind. And still there's something in the world For when the chiming hounds are out, His hunting feats have him bereft, Of his right eye, as you may see; And then, what limbs those feats have lef 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. 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 Which they can do between them. Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, This scrap of land he from the heath Few months of life has he in store, For still, the more he works, the more My gentle reader, I perceive How patiently you've waited, O reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring. A tale in everything. What more I have to say is short, It is no tale; but, should you think, One summer day I chanced to see That at the root of the old tree I struck, and with a single blow At which the poor old man so long The tears into his eyes were brought, -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning, Alas! the gratitude of men ANDREW JONES. "I HATE that Andrew Jones, he'll breed I said not this because he loves Through the long day to swear and tipple; It chanced that Andrew pass'd that way He stoop'd and took the penny up: N And hence, I say, that Andrew's boys In the school of is a tablet, on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the names of the several persons who have been schoolmasters there since the foundation of the school, with the time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite one of ose names the Author wrote the following lines. IF nature, for a favourite child In thee hath temper'd so her clay, Read o'er these lines; and then review In such diversity of hue Its history of two hundred years. -When through this little wreck of fame- Has travell'd down to Matthew's name, Poor Matthew-all his frolics o'er- Far from the chimney's merry roar, The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs Thou soul of God's best earthly mould! THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. WE walk'd along, while bright and red And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said, |