IV.

Suck, little babe, oh suck again!
It cools my blood; it cools my brain;
Thy lips I feel them, baby! they
Draw from my heart the pain away.
Oh! press me with thy little hand;
It loosens something at my chest ;
About that tight and deadly band
I feel thy little fingers prest.
The breeze I see is in the tree:
It comes to cool my babe and me.

V.

Oh! love me, love me, little boy!
Thou art thy mother's only joy;
And do not dread the waves below,
When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go;
The high crag cannot work me harm,
Nor leaping torrents when they howl;
The babe I carry on my arm,

He saves for me my precious soul;
Then happy lie; for blest am I;
Without me my sweet babe would die.

VI.

Then do not fear, my boy! for thee
Bold as a lion will I be;

And I will always be thy guide,
Through hollow snows and rivers wide.
I'll build an Indian bower; I know
The leaves that make the softest bed:
And, if from me thou wilt not go,
But still be true till I am dead,
My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing
As merry as the birds in spring.

VII.

Thy father cares not for my breast,
'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest;
'Tis all thine own and, if its hue
Be changed, that was so fair to view,
'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove!
My beauty, little child, is flown,
But thou wilt live with me in love;
And what if my poor cheek be brown?
'Tis well for me, thou canst not see
How pale and wan it else would be.

VIII.

Dread not their taunts, my little Life;
I am thy father's wedded wife;
And underneath the spreading tree
We two will live in honesty.

If his sweet boy he could forsake,
With me he never would have stayed:
From him no harm my babe can take;
But he, poor man! is wretched made;
And every day we two will pray
For him that's gone and far away.

IX.

I'll teach my boy the sweetest things:
I'll teach him how the owlet sings.

My little babe! thy lips are still,

And thou hast almost sucked thy fill.

-Where art thou gone, my own dear child?

What wicked looks are those I see?

Alas alas that look so wild,

It never, never came from me:

If thou art mad, my pretty lad,

Then I must be for ever sad.

X.

Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!
For I thy own dear mother am:
My love for thee has well been tried:
I've sought thy father far and wide.
I know the poisons of the shade;
I know the earth-nuts fit for food:
Then, pretty dear, be not afraid:
We'll find thy father in the wood.

Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!
And there, my babe, we'll live for aye."

SIMON LEE,

THE OLD HUNTSMAN;

WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED.

Comp. 1798.

Pub. 1798.

[This old man had been huntsman to the squires of Alfoxden, which, at the time we occupied it, belonged to a minor. The old man's cottage stood upon the common, a little way from the entrance to Alfoxden Park. But it had disappeared. Many other changes had taken place in the adjoining village, which I could not but notice with a regret more natural than well considered. Improvements but rarely appear such to those who, after long intervals of time, revisit places they have had much pleasure in. It is unnecessary to add, the fact was as mentioned in the poem; and I have, after an interval of forty-five years, the image of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him yesterday. The expression when the hounds were out, "I dearly love their voice," was word for word from his own lips.]

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.1 2

Full five-and-thirty years he lived 3
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.5

I've heard he once was tall.

2 In edd. 1798 to 1815 the following is inserted :Of years he has upon his back,

No doubt, a burden weighty;
He says he is three score and ten,
But others say he's eighty.

A long blue livery-coat has he,

That's fair behind and fair before;

Yet, meet him when you will, you see
At once that he is poor.

1798.

1

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. 1