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William Wordsworth - Simon Lee: The Old Huntsman
Work rating: Medium

.  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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