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-Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew

tree stands Far from all human dwelling; what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb; What if these barren boughs the bee not loves; Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves That break against the shore, shall lullthy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.

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Who he was That pflod these stones, and with the mossy sod First covera o'er, and taught this aged Tree, Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade, I well remember. He was one who own'd No common soul. In youth, by genius nursid,

And big with lofty views, he to the world
Went forth, pure in his heart, against the raint
Of dissolute tongues,'gainst jealousy, and hate,
And scorn, against all enemies prepared,
All but neglect; and so, his spirit damped
At once, with rash disdain he turn'd away,
And with the food of pride sustained his soul
In solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughs
Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,
His only visitants a straggling sheep,
The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper;
And on these barren rocks, with juniper,
And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er,
Fixing his downward eye, he many an hour
A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here
An emblem of his own unfruitful life:
And lifting up his head, he then would gaze
On the more distant scene; how lovely 'tis
Thou seest, and he would gaze till it became
Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain
The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that

Would he forget those beings, to whose minds,
Warm from the labours of benevolence,
The world, and man himself, appeared a scene
Of kindred loveliness: Then he would sigh
With mournful joy, to think that others felt
What he must never feel; and so, lost man!
On visionary views would fancy feed,

Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep

vale He died, this seat his only monument.

If thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know,

that Pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he who feels contempt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that Thought with

him Is in its infancy. The man, whose eye Is ever on himself, doth look on one, The least of Nature's works, one who might


The wise man to that scorn which wisdom

holds Unlawful, ever. O, be wiser thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love; True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.

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