Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch But who is he with modest looks, He is retired as noontide dew In common things that round us lie That broods and sleeps on his own heart. The things which others understand. 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 bequeath'd To beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed "You look round on your mother earth, "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, But we must still be seeking? "Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may, I sit upon this old grey 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 His first sweet evening yellow. Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my lite 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 Then 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. TO THE SONS OF BURNS, AFTER VISITING (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 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; But be admonish'd by his grave, And think, and fear! TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND. COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING TOGETHER IN HIS PLEASURE-GROUND. SPADE! with which Wilkinson hath till'd his lande, I press thee through the yielding soil with pride. Rare master has it been thy lot to know; Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure, Or in some silent field, while timid spring Who shall inherit thee when death has laid 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 apprize the reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the i pression 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 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 ; 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, And now on the brink of the iron. Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazeu ; His feelers methinks I can see him put forth To the east and the west, and the south and the north; Endles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh; fe and death his blood freezes and thaws; -, no friend has he near him-while 1 summer grass were the floor of my room, my witness, thou small helpless thing! ould gladly sustain - comes up from the south, and with crowds SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT BY MY > THE PERSON TO WHOM THEY WERE ADDRESSED. the first mild day of March, 1 minute sweeter than before; redbreast sings from the tall larch stands beside our door. e is a blessing in the air, h seems a sense of joy to yield e bare trees, and mountains bare, ster! ('tis a wish of mine) d will come with you; and pray, less forms shall regulate ng calendar: n to-day, my friend, will date ening of the year. >w an universal birth, art to heart is stealing, rth to man, from man to earth: he hour of feeling. nent now may give us more y years of reason: is shall drink at every pore t of the season. nt lows our hearts mer make |