[8]
And [9] he is lean and he is sick;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 35
His legs are thin and dry.
And [9] he is lean and he is sick;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 35
His legs are thin and dry.
Wordsworth - 1
The expression when the hounds were out, 'I dearly love
their voice,' was word for word from his own lips. --I. F. ]
This poem was classed among those of "Sentiment and Reflection. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old Man dwells, a little man,--
'Tis said [1] he once was tall.
[2] Full five-and-thirty [3] years he lived 5
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry. [4]
No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee: 10
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The halloo of Simon Lee.
In those proud days, he little cared
For husbandry or tillage;
To blither tasks did Simon rouse 15
The sleepers of the village. [5]
He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind;
And often, ere the chase [6] was done,
He reeled, and was stone blind. 20
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!
But, oh the heavy change! [A]--bereft 25
Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! [7]
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead,--and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 30
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor.
[8]
And [9] he is lean and he is sick;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 35
His legs are thin and dry.
One prop he has, and only one,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common. [10] 40
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 45
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer? [11]
Oft, working by her Husband's side,
Ruth does what Simon cannot do; 50
For she, with scanty cause for pride, [12]
Is stouter of the two.
And, though you with your utmost skill
From labour could not wean them,
'Tis little, very little--all 55
That they can do between them. [13]
Few months of life has he in store
As he to you will tell,
For still, the more he works, the more
Do his weak ankles swell. [14] 60
My gentle Reader, I perceive
How patiently you've waited,
And now I fear [15] that you expect
Some tale will be related.
O Reader! had you in your mind 65
Such stores as silent thought can bring,[B]
O gentle Reader! you would find
A tale in every thing.
What more I have to say is short,
And you must [16] kindly take it: 70
It is no tale; but, should you think, [17]
Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
One summer-day I chanced to see
This old Man doing all he could
To unearth the root [18] of an old tree, 75
A stump of rotten wood.
The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavour,
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever. 80
"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool," to him I said;
And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.
I struck, and with a single blow 85
The tangled root I severed,
At which the poor old Man so long
And vainly had endeavoured.
their voice,' was word for word from his own lips. --I. F. ]
This poem was classed among those of "Sentiment and Reflection. "--Ed.
* * * * *
THE POEM
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old Man dwells, a little man,--
'Tis said [1] he once was tall.
[2] Full five-and-thirty [3] years he lived 5
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry. [4]
No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee: 10
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The halloo of Simon Lee.
In those proud days, he little cared
For husbandry or tillage;
To blither tasks did Simon rouse 15
The sleepers of the village. [5]
He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind;
And often, ere the chase [6] was done,
He reeled, and was stone blind. 20
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!
But, oh the heavy change! [A]--bereft 25
Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see! [7]
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead,--and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 30
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor.
[8]
And [9] he is lean and he is sick;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 35
His legs are thin and dry.
One prop he has, and only one,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common. [10] 40
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 45
Enclosed when he was stronger;
But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer? [11]
Oft, working by her Husband's side,
Ruth does what Simon cannot do; 50
For she, with scanty cause for pride, [12]
Is stouter of the two.
And, though you with your utmost skill
From labour could not wean them,
'Tis little, very little--all 55
That they can do between them. [13]
Few months of life has he in store
As he to you will tell,
For still, the more he works, the more
Do his weak ankles swell. [14] 60
My gentle Reader, I perceive
How patiently you've waited,
And now I fear [15] that you expect
Some tale will be related.
O Reader! had you in your mind 65
Such stores as silent thought can bring,[B]
O gentle Reader! you would find
A tale in every thing.
What more I have to say is short,
And you must [16] kindly take it: 70
It is no tale; but, should you think, [17]
Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
One summer-day I chanced to see
This old Man doing all he could
To unearth the root [18] of an old tree, 75
A stump of rotten wood.
The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavour,
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever. 80
"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool," to him I said;
And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.
I struck, and with a single blow 85
The tangled root I severed,
At which the poor old Man so long
And vainly had endeavoured.
