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DISCOURSE was deemed Man's noblest attribute,
And written words the glory of his hand;
Then followed Printing with enlarged command
For thought, dominion vast and absolute

For spreading truth, and making love expand.
Now prose and verse sunk into disrepute
Must lackey a dumb Art that best can suit
The taste of this once-intellectual Land.
A backward movement surely have we here,
From manhood, back to childhood; for the age,
Back towards caverned life's first rude career.
Avaunt this vile abuse of pictured page!
Must eyes be all in all, the tongue and ear
Nothing? Heaven keep us from a lower stage!





Composed while we were laboring together in his pleasureground.

SPADE! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands, And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side,

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Thou art a tool of honor 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 laboring many and the resting few;

Health, meekness, ardor, quietness 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!

He will not dread with thee a toilsome day, Thee, his loved servant, his inspiring mate!

And when thou art past service, worn away,
No dull oblivious nook shall hide thy fate.

His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn;
An heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be ;
High will he hang thee up, well pleased to adorn
His rustic chimney with the last of thee!




Lo! where the Moon along the sky
Sails with her happy destiny;
Oft is she hid from mortal eye,

Or dimly seen,

But when the clouds asunder fly,
How bright her mien !

Far different we, a froward race;

Thousands, though rich in Fortune's grace,
With cherished sullenness of pace

Their way pursue,
Ingrates that wear a smileless face
The whole year through.

If kindred humors e'er would make
My spirit droop for drooping's sake,

From Fancy following in thy wake,
Bright ship of heaven!

A counter impulse let me take,
And be forgiven.




On his morning rounds, the Master
Goes to learn how all things fare;
Searches pasture after pasture,
Sheep and cattle eyes with care;
And, for silence or for talk,
He hath comrades in his walk;

Four dogs, each pair of different breed,
Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.

See a hare before him started!
Off they fly in earnest chase;
Every dog is eager-hearted,
All the four are in the race:
And the hare whom they pursue
Knows from instinct what to do;
Her hope is near: no turn she makes
But, like an arrow, to the river takes.


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Deep the river was, and crusted
Thinly by a one night's frost ;
But the nimble hare hath trusted
To the ice, and safely crossed;
She hath crossed, and without heed
All are following at full speed,
When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread,

Breaks-and the greyhound, DART, is overhead!

Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW,-
See them cleaving to the sport!
MUSIC has no heart to follow,

Little MUSIC, she stops short.
She hath neither wish nor heart,
Hers is now another part:

A loving creature she, and brave,

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And fondly strives her struggling friend to save.

From the brink her paws she stretches,

Very hands as you would say !

And afflicting moans she fetches,
As he breaks the ice away.
For herself she has no fears,

Him alone she sees and hears,

Makes efforts with complainings; nor gives o'er, Until her fellow sinks to reappear no more.


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