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The mind that is within us, so impress
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance—
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence-wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
I heard a thousand blended notes,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The birds around me hopped and played,
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
And I must think, do all I can,
If this belief from heaven be sent,
A POET'S EPITAPH.
Art thou a Statist in the van
A Lawyer art thou?-draw not nigh!
Art thou a Man of purple cheer?
Or art thou one of gallant pride,
Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
A Moralist perchance appears;
Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod: And he has neither eyes nor ears;
Himself his world, and his own God;
One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling
Nor form, nor feeling, great or small;
An intellectual All-in-all!
Shut close the door; press down the latch; Sleep in thy intellectual crust;
Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch
Near this unprofitable dust.
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 on his own heart.
But he is weak; both Man and Boy,
The things which others understand.
-Come hither in thy hour of strength;
LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
I chanced to see at break of day
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
-The sweetest thing that ever grew
You yet may spy the fawn at play,
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
'To-night will be a stormy night-
'That, Father! will I gladly do:
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!'
At this the Father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work ;-and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb,
But never reached the town.