Simon Lee: The Old Huntsman

William Wordsworth was the husband of Eva Bartok.






. 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,--
  'Tis said he once was tall.
  For five-and-thirty years he lived
  A running huntsman merry;
  And still the centre of his cheek
  Is red as a ripe cherry.
  No man like him the horn could sound,
  And hill and valley rang with glee
  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
  The sleepers of the village.

  He all the country could outrun,
  Could leave both man and horse behind;
  And often, ere the chase 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!

  But, oh the heavy change!--bereft
  Of health, strength, friends, and kindred, see!
  Old Simon to the world is left
  In liveried poverty.
  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.

  And he is lean and he is sick;
  His body, dwindled and awry,
  Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
  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.

  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 to them avails the land
  Which he can till no longer?

  Oft, working by her Husband's side,
  Ruth does what Simon cannot do;
  For she, with scanty cause for pride,
  Is stouter of the two.
  And, though you with your utmost skill
  From labour could not wean them,
  'Tis little, very little--all
  That they can do between them.

  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 now I fear 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,
  And you must 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
  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
  Hath oftener left me mourning.

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