SIMON LEE.

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
Inclosed 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
Do his weak ankles 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 everything.

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.

133

R

One summer day I chanced to see
This old man doing all he could
To unearth the root of an old tree,
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.

"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
The tangled root I severed,
At which the poor old man so long
And vainly had endeavoured.

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 oftener left me mourning.

WORDSWORTH.

MY PICTURE.

135

MY PICTURE.

STAND this way-more near the window-
By my desk you see the light
Falling on my Picture better-

Thus I see it while I write !

Who the head may be I know not,
But it has a student air;

With a look half sad, half stately,

Grave sweet eyes and glowing hair.

Little care I who the painter,

How obscure a name he bore;
Nor, when some have named Velasquez,
Did I value it the more.

As it is, I would not give it
For the rarest piece of art;
It has dwelt with me, and listened
To the secrets of my heart.

Many a time, when to my garret
Weary I returned at night,

It has seemed to look a welcome

That has made my poor room bright.

Many a time, when ill and sleepless,
I have watched the quivering gleam
Of my lamp upon that Picture,

Till it faded in my dream.

When dark days have come, and friendship
Worthless seemed, and life in vain,
That bright friendly smile has sent me
Boldly to my task again.

Sometimes, when hard need has pressed me
To bow down where I despise,

I have read stern words of counsel
In those sad reproachful eyes.

Nothing that brain imagined,

Or my weary hand has wrought,
But it watched the dim Idea
Spring forth into armèd Thought.

It has smiled on my successes,
Raised me when my hopes were low;
And, by turns, has looked upon me
With all the loving eyes I know.

Do you wonder that my Picture

Has become so like a friend?—
It has seen my life's beginnings,
It shall stay and cheer the end!

PROCTER.