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And from the blessed 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.

LINES,

WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in the grove I sat reclin'd,

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.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,

The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and play'd

Their thoughts I cannot measure:-
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

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The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

If I these thoughts may not prevent,
If such be of my creed the plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS.

WE walked along, while bright and red
Uprose the morning sun;

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,
Beneath so beautiful a sun,

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 :

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"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind

A day like this, which I have left
Full thirty years behind.

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