LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. I heard a thousand blended notes, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair works did Nature link Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The birds around me hopped and played, The budding twigs spread out their fan, And I must think, do all I can, If this belief from heaven be sent, (1798.) A POET'S EPITAPH. Art thou a Statist in the van A Lawyer art thou?-draw not nigh! Art thou a Man of purple cheer? Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, A Moralist perchance appears ; Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod: And he has neither eyes nor ears; Himself his world, and his own God; One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling An intellectual All-in-all! Shut close the door; press down the latch; Sleep in thy intellectual crust; Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch Near this unprofitable dust. But who is He, with modest looks, He is retired as noontide dew, The outward shows of sky and earth, In common things that round us lie That broods and sleeps on his own heart. But he is weak; both Man and Boy, The things which others understand. -Come hither in thy hour of strength; (1799) LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE. Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; -The sweetest thing that ever grew You yet may spy the fawn at play, But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 'To-night will be a stormy night- "That, Father! will I gladly do: The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!' At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work ;-and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb, But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night But there was neither sound nor sight At day-break on a hill they stood And thence they saw the bridge of wood, They wept-and, turning homeward, cried, 'In heaven we all shall meet !' -When in the snow the mother spied Then downwards from the steep hill's edge And then an open field they crossed; The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; They followed from the snowy bank And further there were none! -Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind. (1799-) |