One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling
Nor form, nor feeling, great nor small;
A reasoning, self-sufficing 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 in 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.

V.

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.

'WHY, William, on that old grey stone, Thus for the length of half a day;

Why, William, sit you thus alone,

And dream your time away?

Where are your books, that light bequeathed

To beings else forlorn and blind?

Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.

You look round on your mother earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply :-

"The eye-it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against, or with our will.

Nor less I deem that there are powers
Which of themselves our minds impress;
That we can feed this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.

Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking,

That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking?

-Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,

I sit upon this old grey stone,
And dream my time away."

1

VL

THE TABLES TURNED;

AN EVENING SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

UP! up! my friend, and clear your looks;

Why all this toil and trouble?

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you'll grow double.

The sun, above the mountain's head,

A freshening lustre mellow

Through all the long green fields has spread,

His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife:

Come, hear the woodland linnet,

How sweet his music!-on my life

There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher :

Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Aur minds and hearts to bless-
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,

Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings:

Our meddling intellect

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things;
-We murder to dissect.

Enough of science and of art;

Close up these barren leaves:

Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

VII.

ADDRESS TO THE SONS OF BURNS, AFTER VISITING THEIR FATHER'S GRAVE.

(AUGUST 14, 1803.)

YE now are panting up life's hill!
'Tis twilight time of good and ill,

And more than common strength and skill
Must ye display

If ye would give the better will

Its lawful sway.

Strong-bodied if ye be to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware!
But if your father's wit ye share,

Then, then indeed,

Ye sons of Burns! for watchful care
There will be need.

For honest men delight will take
To show you favour for his sake,—
Will flatter you; and fool and rake
Your steps pursue:
And of your father's name will make
A snare for you.

Let no mean hope your souls enslave;
Be independent, generous, brave!

Your father such example gave,

And such revere !

But be admonished by his

grave,

And think, and fear!

VIII.

TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND.

(AN AGRICULTURIST.)

COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING TOGETHER IN HIS

PLEASURE-GROUND.

SPADE! with which Wilkinson had 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;

Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure,
And industry of body and of mind;
And elegant enjoyments, that are pure
As Nature is too pure to be refined.

Here often hast thou heard the Poet sing
In concord with his river murmuring by;
Or in some silent field, while timid spring
Is yet uncheered by other minstrelsy.

Who shall inherit thee when death has laid
Low in the darksome cell thine own dear lord?
That man will have a trophy, humble spade-
A trophy nobler than a conqueror's sword!

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 uselessness 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!

IX.

WRITTEN IN GERMANY,

ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY.

I must apprise the reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick arms.

A FIG for your languages, German and Norse!

Let me have the song of the kettle;

And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse
That gallops away with such fury and force
On this dreary dull plate of black metal.

Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff;
But her pulses beat slower and slower :

The weather in 'forty was cutting and rough,

And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough;
And now it is four degrees lower.

Here's a fly,- -a disconsolate creature! perhaps
A child of the field or the grove;

And, sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat
Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat,
And he creeps to the edge of my stove.

Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
Which this comfortless oven environ !

He cannot find out in what track he must crawl,
Now back to the tiles, and now back to the wall,
And now on the brink of the iron.

Stock-still there he stands, like a traveller bemazed;
The best of his skill he has tried;

His feelers methinks I can see him put forth

To the east and the west, and the south and the north;
But he finds neither guide-post nor guide.

See his spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh;
His eyesight and hearing are lost;

Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws;
And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze
Are glued to his sides by the frost.

No brother, no friend has he near him-while I
Can draw warmth from the cheek of my love;

As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom

As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,
And woodbines were hanging above.

Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless thing!
Thy life I would gladly sustain