nock. I lay, where with his drowsy mates, the cock From the cross timber of an out-house hung; How dismal tolled, that night, the city clock! At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, Nor to the beggar's language could I frame my tongue. So passed another day, and so the third: Then did I try, in vain, the crowd's resort, In deep despair by frightful wishes stirr'd, Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort: There, pains which nature could no more support, With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall; Dizzy my brain, with interruption short Of hideous sense; I sunk, nor step could crawl, And thence was borne away to neighbouring hospital. Recovery came with food: but still, my brain Was weak, nor of the past had memory. I heard my neighbours, in their beds, complain Of many things which never troubled me; Of feet still bustling round with busy glee, Of looks where common kindness had no part, Of service done with careless cruelty, Fretting the fever round the languid heart, And groans, which, as they said, would make a dead man start. These things just served to stir the torpid sense, Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. Memory, though slow, returned with strength; and thence Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, At houses, men, and common light, amazed. The lanes I sought, and as the sun retired, Came, where beneath the trees a faggot blazed; The wild brood saw me weep, my fate enquired, And gave me food, and rest, more welcome, more desired. My heart is touched to think that men like these, The rude earth's tenants, were my first relief: How kindly did they paint their vagrant ease! And their long holiday that feared not grief, For all belonged to all, and each was chief. No plough their sinews strained; on grating road No wain they drove, and yet, the yellow sheaf In every vale for their delight was stowed: For them, in nature's meads, the milky udder flowed. Semblance, with straw and panniered ass, they made Of potters wandering on from door to door: But life of happier sort to me pourtrayed, And other joys my fancy to allure; The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor In barn uplighted, and companions boon Well met from far with revelry secure, In depth of forest glade, when jocund June Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. But ill it suited me, in journey dark O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch; To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, Or hang on tiptoe at the lifted latch; The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, And ear still busy on its nightly watch, Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill; Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still. What could I do, unaided and unblest? Poor Father! gone was every friend of thine: And kindred of dead husband are at best Small help, and, after marriage such as mine, With little kindness would to me incline. Ill was I then for toil or service fit: With tears whose course no effort could confine, By high-way side forgetful would I sit Whole hours, my idle arms in moping sorrow knit. I lived upon the mercy of the fields, And oft of cruelty the sky accused; On hazard, or what general bounty yields, Now coldly given, now utterly refused. The fields I for my bed have often used: But, what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth Is, that I have my inner self abused, Foregone the home delight of constant truth, And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. Three years a wanderer, often have I view'd, In tears, the sun towards that country tend Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude: And now across this moor my steps I bend - On! tell me whither-for no earthly friend Have I. - She ceased, and weeping turned away, As if because her tale was at an end She wept; - because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.  ( ), , , . : , , . - . , , . , , , , - , . , , , ? , , , ? - ; ; , , , , ; , . , . . , - . . : . . . , - . ! : . . , , , , ? , ! : , , , - . , , , : . , . . . . , , , ! - . , . , , . . . - ! - . . , . ! , , ! , , . , , . , , , - . ! . , . : , . ! : , , . , , , ; , , , . , , , , , - , , ! . , ! , , , , , , ! , , , . , , , . ! ! , - , , , . , . , , . , , , , . , , , , , ; , , ! , , , , , , , , , ! , , ! , , , ! , . , , : , , ? , , ! , , - , - . , - . , . , . , , , - , . , . ! --: . , ; , , , , , . , , , , , , - , . , . : , , , , - , . : . , . ! . - , . ! , , . . , , . , , . : , , , . , , - . , . ? ? ! , . . . , , , , . , , , . . . . , , , . , ? , ! ..., . . GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL A True Story Oh! what's the matter? what's the matter? What is't that ails young Harry Gill? That evermore his teeth they chatter, Chatter, chatter, chatter still! Of waistcoats Harry has no lack, Good duffle grey, and flannel fine; He has a blanket on his back, And coats enough to smother nine. In March, December, and in July, Tis all the same with Harry Gill; The neighbours tell, and tell you truly, His teeth they chatter, chatter still. At night, at morning, and at noon, Tis all the same with Harry Gill; Beneath the sun, beneath the moon, His teeth they chatter, chatter still! Young Harry was a lusty drover, And who so stout of limb as he? His cheeks were red as ruddy clover; His voice was like the voice of three. Old Goody Blake was old and poor; Ill fed she was, and thinly clad; And any man who passed her door Might see how poor a hut she had. All day she spun in her poor dwelling: And then her three hours' work at night, Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling, It would not pay for candle-light. Remote from sheltered village-green, On a hill's northern side she dwelt, Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean, And hoary dews are slow to melt. By the same fire to boil their pottage, Two poor old Dames, as I have known, Will often live in one small cottage; But she, poor Woman! housed alone. Twas well enough when summer came, The long, warm, lightsome summer-day, Then at her door the canty Dame Would sit, as any linnet, gay. But when the ice our streams did fetter, Oh then how her old bones would shake! You would have said, if you had met her, 'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake. Her evenings then were dull and dead: Sad case it was, as you may think, For very cold to go to bed; And then for cold not sleep a wink. joy for her! whene'er in winter The winds at night had made a rout; And scattered many a lusty splinter And many a rotten bough about. Yet never had she, well or sick, As every man who knew her says, A pile beforehand, turf or stick, Enough to warm her for three days. Now, when the frost was past enduring, And made her poor old bones to ache, Could any thing be more alluring Than an old hedge to Goody Blake? And, now and then, it must be said, When her old bones were cold and chill, She left her fire, or left her bed, To seek the hedge of Harry Gill. Now Harry he had long suspected This trespass of old Goody Blake; And vowed that she should be detected - That he on her would vengeance take. And oft from his warm fire he'd go, And to the fields his road would take; And there, at night, in frost and snow, He watched to seize old Goody Blake. And once, behind a rick of barley, Thus looking out did Harry stand: The moon was full and shining clearly, And crisp with frost the stubble land. - He hears a noise-he's all awake - Again? - on tip-toe down the hill He softly creeps - 'tis Goody Blake; She's at the hedge of Harry Gill! Right glad was he when he beheld her: Stick after stick did Goody pull: He stood behind a bush of elder, Till she had filled her apron full. When with her load she turned about, The by-way back again to take; He started forward, with a shout, And sprang upon poor Goody Blake. And fiercely by the arm he took her, And by the arm he held her fast, And fiercely by the arm he shook her, And cried, "I've caught you then at last!" - Then Goody, who had nothing said, Her bundle from her lap let fall; And, kneeling on the sticks, she prayed To God that is the judge of all. She prayed, her withered hand uprearing, While Harry held her by the arm- "God! who art never out of hearing, may he never more be warm!" The cold, cold moon above her head, Thus on her knees did Goody pray; Young Harry heard what she had said: And icy cold he turned away. He went complaining all the morrow That he was cold and very chill: His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, Alas! that day for Harry Gill! That day he wore a riding-coat, But not a whit the warmer he: Another was on Thursday brought, And ere the Sabbath he had three. 'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, And blankets were about him pinned; Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter; Like a loose casement in the wind. And Harry's flesh it fell away; And all who see him say, 'tis plain, That, live as long as live he may, He never will be warm again. No word to any man he utters, A-bed or up, to young or old; But ever to himself he mutters, "Poor Harry Gill is very cold." A-bed or up, by night or day; His teeth they chatter, chatter still. Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill!   , , , ? , . , , . , , , , , , ! - : , , ! : , - . , , , . . , , . . . , . , , . , , , . - . ! , - , , ! , , , . , . - . - . , , , . . , . , , , , . , . . , : ! , , , - - . - . , , , , : ", !" . , , . , : " ! , !" . - . , . , . . , , . , , - . , , . , , , ! ! - . . , , . . , ! LINES WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY TO THE PERSON TO WHOM THEY WERE ADDRESSED It is the first mild day of March: Each minute sweeter than before The redbreast sings from the tall larch That stands beside our door. There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grass in the green field. My sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Now that our morning meal is done, Make haste, your morning task resign; Come forth and feel the sun. Edward will come with you; - and, pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness. No joyless forms shall regulate Our living calendar: We from to-day, my Friend, will date The opening of the year. Love, now a universal birth, 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 years of toiling reason: Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season. Some silent laws our hearts will 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 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 liver-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 h