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 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 in his own heart. But he is weak, both man and boy, 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 You look round on your mother earth, One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, "The eye-it cannot choose but see; Nor less I deem that there are powers Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum That nothing of itself will come, -Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, I sit upon this old grey stone, 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, 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! Come forth into the light of things, She has a world of ready wealth, One impulse from a vernal wood Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings: Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things; Enough of science and of art; Close up these barren leaves: Come forth, and bring with you a heart VII. ADDRESS TO THE SONS OF BURNS, AFTER VISITING THEIR FATHER'S GRAVE. (AUGUST 14, 1803.) YE now are panting up life's hill! And more than common strength and skill If ye would give the better will Its lawful sway. Strong-bodied if ye be to bear Then, then indeed, Ye sons of Burns! for watchful care For honest men delight will take Let no mean hope your souls enslave; 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; Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure, Here often hast thou heard the Poet sing Who shall inherit thee when death has laid If he be one that feels, with skill to part With thee he will not dread a toilsome day, His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn; 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 Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff; The weather in 'forty was cutting and rough, And then, as Heaven knows, the glass stood low enough; Here's a fly,- -a disconsolate creature! perhaps And, sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat Alas! how he fumbles about the domains He cannot find out in what track he must crawl, Stock-still there he stands, like a traveller bemazed; His feelers methinks I can see him put forth To the east and the west, and the south and the north; See his spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh; Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws; No brother, no friend has he near him-while I As blest and as glad in this desolate gloom As if green summer grass were the floor of my room, Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless thing! |