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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! 't is 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
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Misshapes the beauteous forms of things:
We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
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
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The birds around me hopped and played,
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
What man has made of man?
I MARVEL how Nature could ever find space
And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.
There's weakness, and strength both redundant
and vain ;
Such strength as, if ever affliction and pain
Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease, Would be rational peace, a philosopher's ease.
There's indifference, alike when he fails or succeeds, And attention full ten times as much as there needs; Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy;
And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.
There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare
This picture from nature may seem to depart, Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart;
And I for five centuries right gladly would be Such an odd, such a kind, happy creature as he.
TO MY SISTER.
It is the first mild day of March :-
The redbreast sings from the tall larch
There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
My sister! (t is a wish of mine.)
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 a 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 years of toiling reason: