Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams 1798. THE sun has long been set: The stars are out by twos and threes; Among the bushes and trees; There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes; And a noise of wind that rushes, With a noise of water that gushes; And the cuckoo's sovereign cry Fills all the hollow of the sky! Who would go "parading" With that beautiful soft half-moon, On such a night as this is? POEMS OF SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. "WHY, William, on that old gray 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 Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours "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, I sit upon this old gray stone, THE TABLES TURNED; AN EVENING SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT. Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, The sun, above the mountain's head, Through all the long green fields has spread, 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, One impulse from a vernal wood 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 TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND. (AN AGRICULTURIST.) COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING TOGETHER IN HIS PLEASURE-GROUND. SPADE! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands, 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; 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! And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse 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 Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless thing! Till Summer comes up from the south, and with crowds Ofthy brethren a march thou shouldst sound through the clouds And back to the forests again! CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. WHO is the happy Warrior? Who is he -It is the generous spirit, who, when brought What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; |