And from the blessed power that rolls We'll frame the measure of our souls: They shall be tuned to love. Then come, my Sister ! come, I pray, We'll give to idleness. 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 The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower The birds around me hopped and play'd Their thoughts I cannot measure:- And I must think, do all I can, If I these thoughts may not prevent, THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. WE walked along, while bright and red And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, "The will of God be done!" A village schoolmaster was he, With hair of glittering gray; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday. And on that morning, through the grass, And by the streaming rills, We travelled merrily, to pass A day among the hills. "Our work," said I, "was well begun; Then from thy breast what thought, So sad a sigh has brought?" A second time did Matthew stop; And fixing still his eye Upon the eastern mountain top, To me he made reply : |