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

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our 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

Till summer comes up from the south, and with crowds

Of thy brethren a march thou shouldst sound through the clouds And back to the forests again!

X
LINES

WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY TO THE PERSON TO WHOM THEY WERE ADDRESSED.

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.

Love, now an universal birth,

From heart to heart is stealing,

From earth to man, from man to earth:

-It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more

Than fifty years of reason:

Our minds shall drink at every pore

The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts may make,

Which they shall long obey;

We for the year to come may take

Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessèd power that rolls
About, below, above,

We'll frame the measure of our souls:
They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
-And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

XI.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE
COUNTRY.

DEAR child of nature, let them rail!
-There is a nest in a green dale,

A harbour and a hold,

Where thou, a wife and friend, shalt see

Thy own delightful days, and be

A light to young and old.

There, healthy as a shepherd-boy,

As if thy heritage were joy,

And pleasure were thy trade,

Thou, while thy babes around thee cling,

Shalt show us how divine a thing

A woman may be made.

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh,

A melancholy slave;

But an old age serene and bright,

And lovely as a Lapland night,

Shall lead thee to thy grave.

XII.

LINES,

WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

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.