And, had it been thy lot to live For thou wert still the poor man's stay, Bear witness many a pensive sigh And by Loch Lomond's braes ! And, far and near, through vale and hill, And kindle, like a fire new stirred, At sound of Rob Roy's name. IV. A POET'S EPITAPH. ART thou a statesman, in the van A lawyer art thou?-draw not nigh; Art thou a man of purple cheer, Art thou a man of gallant pride, Physician art thou? One, all eyes, Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, -A moralist perchance appears; One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling Shut close the door, press down the latch; Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch But who is he with modest looks, He is retired as noontide dew The outward shows of sky and earth, In common things that round us lie That broods and sleeps in his own heart. But he is weak, both man and boy, The things which others understand. -Come hither in thy hour of strength Come, weak as is a breaking wave! Here stretch thy body at full length, Or build thy house upon this grave. V. EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. "WHY, William, on that old grey stone, Where are your books, that light bequeathed 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 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, Conversing as I may, I sit upon this old grey stone, VI. THE TABLES TURNED; AN EVENING SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT. UP! up! my friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you'll grow double. The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow 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 life And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! 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; Enough of science and of art; Close up these barren leaves: Come forth, and bring with you a heart VIL ADDRESS TO THE SONS of burns, AFTER VISITING THEIR FATHER'S GRAVE. (AUGUST 14, 1803.) YE now are panting up life's hill! 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 Ye sons of Burns! for watchful care For honest men delight will take And of your father's name will make Let no mean hope your souls enslave ; But be admonished by his grave,— 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; 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, |