He all the country could outrun, Could leave both man and horse behind; And often, ere the chase was done, He reel'd 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 totter'd in his hand; So vain was his endeavour That at the root of the old tree He might have work'd for ever. 'You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee, Give me your tool,' to him I said; And at the word right gladly he Received my proffer'd aid. I struck, and with a single blow The tangled root I sever'd, At which the poor old man so long And vainly had endeavour'd. The tears into his eyes were brought, And thanks and praises seem'd to run So fast out of his heart, I thought They never would have done. --I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deed With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning. _W. Wordsworth_ CCLXIV _THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES_