ay with a natural instinct to discern
Wat knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn;
Ades by this resolve, and stops not there,
makes his moral being his prime care;
W doomed to go in company with Pain,
sa Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train!
Turas his necessity to glorious gain;
** face of these doth exercise a power
Which is our human nature's highest dower;
Trois them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves
their bad influence, and their good receives:
ects, which might force the soul to abate
Herbeling, rendered more compassionate;
arable-because occasions rise
Sen that demand such sacrifice;
A-re skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure,
A trapted more; more able to endure,
Aare exposed to suffering and distress;
Tence, also, more alive to tenderness.
-Ts be whose law is reason; who depends
un that law as on the best of friends;
ence, in a state where men are tempted still
T: for a guard against worse ill,
And what in quality or act is best
Be seldom on a right foundation rest,
ires good on good alone, and owes
Tortue every triumph that he knows:
-Who, if he rise to station of command,
Rby open means; and there will stand
Unourable terms, or else retire,
Ax in himself possess his own desire;
W comprehends his trust, and to the same
faithful with a singleness of aim;
And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
Pir wealth, or honours, or for worldly state;
Wm they must follow; on whose head must fall,
Late showers of manna, if they come at all:
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
mid concerns of ordinary life,
Aonstant influence, a peculiar grace;
But who, if he be called upon to face
Be awful moment to which Heaven has joined
Great issues, good or bad for human kind,
7 as a Lover; and attired
Whadden brightness, like a Man inspired;
As through the heat of conflict, keeps the law
'Tis, finally, the Man, who, lifted high,
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,
Or left unthought-of in obscurity, -
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,
Plays, in the many games of life, that one
Where what he most doth value must be won:
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From well to better, daily self-surpast:
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or He must go to dust without his fame,
And leave a dead unprofitable name,
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause:
This is the happy Warrior; this is He
Whom every Man in arms should wish to be.
mness made, and sees what he foresaw; 'Or an unexpected call succeed, Lase when it will, is equal to the need: -Be who though thas endued as with a sense And faculty for storm and turbulence, byt a Soul whose master-bias leans Tefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes; Bet images! which, wheresoe'er he be, Are at his heart; and such fidelity Esha darling passion to approve; More brave for this, that he hath much to love: tearmies of honourable
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
Nor form, nor feeling, great nor small;
A reasoning, self-sufficient thing,
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, And clad in homely russet brown? He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
He is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noon-day grove;
And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love.
The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.
In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart,
-The harvest of a quiet eye
That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
But he is weak, both Man and Boy,
Hath been an idler in the land;
Contented if he might enjoy
The things which others understand.
Come hither in thy hour of strength; Come, weak as is a breaking wave! Here stretch thy body at full length; Or build thy house upon this grave.
TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND,
COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING TOGETHER IN HIS
- SPADE! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his Lands, And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side, Thou art a tool of honour in my hands;
I press thee, through the yielding soil, with pride.
Rare Master has it been thy lot to know; Long hast Thou served a Man to reason true; Whose life combines the best of high and low, The toiling many and the resting few;
If he be One that feels, with skill to part False praise from true, or greater from the less, Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart, Thou monument of peaceful happiness!
With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day,
His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate!
And, when thou art past service, worn away,
Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate.
His thrift thy usefulness will never scorn;
An Heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be:
High will he hang thee up, and will adorn
His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!
Lu wis I. 117.
TO MY SISTER.
WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOU AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY.
IT is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before,
The Redbreast sings from the tall Larch
That stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.
My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign,
Come forth and feel the sun.
Edward will come with you;-and, pray. Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living Calendar:
We from to-day, my Friend, will date
The opening of the year
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 ancles 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 avails it now, 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,
Alas! 't is very little-all
Which 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 ancles 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.
IN Bruges town is many a street, Whence busy life hath fled; Where, without hurry, noiseless feet
The grass-grown pavement tread. There heard we, halting in the shade
Flung from a Convent-tower,
A harp that tuneful prelude made
To a voice of thrilling power.
The measure, simple truth to tell,
Was fit for some gay throng;
Though from the same grim turret fell
The shadow and the song.
When silent were both voice and chords
The strain seemed doubly dear,
Yet sad as sweet, for English words
Had fallen upon the ear.
It was a breezy hour of eve;
And pinnacle and spire
Quivered and seemed almost to heave,
Clothed with innocuous fire;
But where we stood, the setting sun
Showed little of his state;
And, if the glory reached the Nun,
'T was through an iron grate.
Not always is the heart unwise, Nor pity idly born,
If even a passing Stranger sighs For them who do not mourn.
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