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For any living thing, hath faculties
Which he has never used; that thought with him
Is in its infancy. The man whose eye
Is ever on himself doth look on one,
The least of Nature's works, one who might move
The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds
Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou!
Instructed that true knowledge leads to love,
True dignity abides with him alone
Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,
Can still suspect, and still revere himself,
In lowliness of heart.

CHARACTER OF THE HAPPY WARRIOR. Who is the happy Warrior? Who is he That every Man in arms should wish to be? --It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought: Whose high endeavours are an inward light That make the path before him always bright: Who, with a natural instinct to discern What knowledge can perform, is diligent to learn; Abides by this resolve, and stops not there, But makes his moral being his prime care; Who, doomed to go in company with Pain, And Fear, and Bloodshed, miserable train! Turns his necessity to glorious gain ; In face of these doth exercise a power Which is our human nature's highest dower; Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives; By objects, which might force the soul to abate Her feeling, rendered more compassionate; Is placable--because occasions rise So often that demand such sacrifice; More skilful in self-knowledge, even more pure, As tempted more; more able to endure, As more exposed to suffering and distress; Thence, also, more alive to tenderness. -'T is he whose law is reason; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends; Whence, in a state where men are tempted still To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doch seldom on a right foundation rest, He fixes good on good alone, and owes To virtue every triumph that he knows: -Who, if he rise to station of command, Rises by open means; and there will stand On honourable terms, or else retire, And ju himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the same Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait For wealth, or honours, or for worldly state ; Whom they must follow; on whose liead must fall, Like showers of mapna, if they come at all: Whose powers shed round him in the common strife, Or mild concerns of ordinary life, A constant influence, a peculiar grace; But who, if he be called upon to face Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined Great issues, good or bad for human kind,

Is happy as a Lover; and attired
With sudden brightness, like a Man inspired;
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps the law
In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw;
Or if an unexpected call succeed,
Come when it will, is equal to the need :
-He who though thus endued as with a sense
And faculty for storm and turbulence,
Is yet a Soul whose master-bias leans
To homefelt pleasures and to gentle scenes ;
Sweet images! which, wheresoe'er he be,
Are at his heart; and such fidelity
It is his darling passion to approve;
More brave for this, that he hath much to love :-
| 'T is, finally, the Man, who, lifted high
Conspicuous object in a Nation's eye,
Or left uathought-of in obscurity,-
Who, with a toward or untoward lot,
Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,
Plays, in the many games of life, that one
Where what he most doth value must be won:
Whoin neither shape of danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray;
Who, not content that former worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From well to better, daily self-surpast :
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth

and to noble deeds give birth,
Or He must go to dust without his fame,
And leave a dead unprofitable name,
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause;
And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause :
This is the happy Warrior; this is He
Whom every Man in arms should wish to be.

For ever,

A POET'S EPITAPH.
Art thou a Statesman, in the van
Of public business trained and bred?
-First learn to love one living man;
Then mayst thou think upon the dead.
A Lawyer art thou ?-draw not nigh ;
Go, carry to some fitter place
The keenness of that practised eye,
The hardness of that sallow face.

Art thou a Man of purple cheer?
A rosy Man, right plump to see?
Approach; yet, Doctor, not too near :
This grave no cushion is for thee.
Or art thou One of gallant pride,
A Soldier, and no man of chaff ?
Welcome !—but lay thy sword aside,
And lean upon a Peasant's staff.

Physician art thou? One, all eyes,
Philosopher! a fingering slave,
One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave ?
Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece,
O turn aside, -and take, I pray,
That he below may rest in peace,
That abject thing, thy soul, away!

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!

With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day, His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate! And, when thou art past service, worn away, Thee a surviving soul shall consecratc.

Flis thrift thy uselessness will never scoro; An Heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be :High will he hang thee up, and will adorn His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!

TO MY SISTER.

WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY NOUSE, AND

SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY.

It is the first mild day of March :
Each minute sweeter than before,
The Redbreast sings from the tall Larch
That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.

My Sister! (tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.

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 lo-day, my Friend, will date
The opening of the year.

Love, now an universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth:
- It is the hour of feeling.

sod:

-A Moralist perchance appears;
Led, Heaven knows how! to this

poor
And He has neither eyes por ears;
Himself his world, and his own God:

One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling
Nor form, por feeling, great nor small;
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,
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,
And clad in homely russet brown?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own.

He is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountaia in a poon-day grove;
And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love.

The outward shows of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley, he has viewed;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.

In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart,
-The harvest of a quiet eye
That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

But he is weak, both Man and Boy,
Hath been an idler in the land ;
Contented if he might enjoy
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.

TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND,

(AN AGRICULTURIST.) COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING TOGETHER IN

HIS PLEASURE-GROUND.

Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his Lands,
And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side,
Thou art a tool of bonour in my hands;
press thee, through the yielding soil, with pride.

Rare Master has it been thy lot to know;
Loog hast Thou served a Man to reason true;
Whose life combines the best of high aud low,
The toiling many and the resting few;

Health, meekness, ardour, quietness secure,
And industry of body and of mind;
And elegant enjoyments, that are pure
As Nature is ;-100 pure to be refined.

One moment now may give us more
Than fifty years of reason :
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

From Heaven if this belief be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?

SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN,

WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED.

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-ball,
An Old Man dwells, a little man,
"T is said he once was tall.
Full five-and-thirty years he lived
A running Huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is blooming as a cherry.

Worn out by hunting feats-bereft
By time of friends and kindred, see !
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master 's dead,-and no one now
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;
Men, dous, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor.

No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The Halloo of Simon Lee.
In those proud days, he little cared
For husbandry or tillage ;
To blither tasks did Simon rouse
The sleepers of the village.

He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind,
And often, ere the chase was done,
He reeled and was stone-blind.
And still there's something in the world
At which his heart rejoices;
For when the chiming hounds are out,
He dearly loves their voices !

But he is lean and he is sick,
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon ancles swold and thick;
Mis legs are thin aod dry.
One prop he has, an only one,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, Dear the waterfall,
Upon the village Common.

Some silent laws our hearts will make,
Which they shall long obey :
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,
We 'll frame the measure of our souls :
They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
-And bring no book : for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS

IN THE COUNTRY.

Dear Child of Nature, let them rail !
-There is a nest in a green dale,
A harbour and a hold,
Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see
Thy own delightful days, and be
A light to young and old.

There, healthy as a Shepherd-boy,
And treading among flowers of joy,
That at no season fade,
Thou, while thy Babes around the cling,
Shalt shew us how divine a thing
A Woman may be made.

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
Nor leave thee when grey-hairs are nigh
A melancholy slave;
But an old age serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland night,
Shall lead thee to thy grave.

LINES

WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING,

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the miod.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 't is my faith that

cvery

flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played ;
Their thoughts I cannot measure :-
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
Not (wenty paces from the door,
A scrap of land they have, but they
Are poorest of the poor.
This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger;
« But what,» saith he, « avails the land,
Which I can till no longer?»

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« You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool,» to him I said ;
And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.
I struck, and with a single blow
The tangled root I severed,
At which the poor Old Man so long
And vainly had endeavoured.

The wears ioto his eyes were brought,
And thanks and praises seemed to run
So fast out of his heart, I thought
They never would have done.
-I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
With coldness still returning,
Alas! the gratitude of men
Hath oftener left me mourning.

TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG. Lie here, without a record of thy worth, Beneath a covering of the common earth! It is not from unwillingness to praise, Or want of love, that bere no Stone we raise ; More thou deserv'st; but this Man gives to Man, Brother to Brother, this is all we can. Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear Shall find thee through all changes of the year: This Oak points out thy grave; the silent Tree Will gladly stand a monument of thee.

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I grieved for thee, and wished thy end were past; And willingly have laid thee here at last: For thou hadst lived, till every thing that cheers la thee had yielded to the weight of years ; Extreme old age had wasted thee away; And left thee but a glimmering of the day; Thy ears were deaf; and feeble were thy knees, I saw thee stagger in the summer breeze, Too weak to stand against its sportive breath, And ready for the gentlest stroke of death. It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed; Both Man and Woman wepi when Thou wert dead; Not only for a thousand thoughts that were, Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share;

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But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee,
Found scarcely any where in like degree !
For love, that comes to all—the holy sense,
Best gift of God-in thee was most intense;
A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind,
A tender sympathy, which did thee bind
Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind:
Yea, for thy Fellow-brutes in thee we saw
The soul of Love, Love's intellectual law:-
Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame;
Our tears from passion and from reason came,
And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name!

A village Schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering grey;
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.
And on that morning, through the grass,
And by the steaming rills,
We travelled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.
«Our work,» said I, « was well begun;
Then, from thy breast what thought,
Beneath so beautiful a sun,
So sad a sigh has brought ?»
A second time did Matthew stop;
And fixing still his eye
Upon the eastern mountain-top,
To me he made reply:
« Yon cloud with that long purple cleft
Brings fresh into my mind

day like this which I have left
Full thirty years behind.
« And just above yon slope of corn
Such colours, and no other,
Were in the sky, that April morn,
Of this the

In the School of -- is a Tablet, on which are inscribed, in gilt

letters, the Names of the several Persons wbo bave been Scboolmasters there since the Foundation of the School, with ibe Time at which they entered upon and quitted their Office. Opposite one of those Names the Author wrote the following Lines.

IF Nature, for a favourite Child
In thee bach tempered so her clay,
That every hour thy heart runs wild
Yet never once doth go astray,
Read o'er these lines; and then review
This tablet, that thus humbly rears
In such diversity of hue
Its history of two hundred

years.

very brother.

-When through this little wreck of fame,
Cipher and syllable! thine eye
Has travelled down to Matthew's name,
Pause with no common sympathy.

And, if a sleeping tear should wake,
Then be it neither checked nor stayed :
For Matthew a request I make
Which for himself he had not made.

« With rod and line I sued the sport
Which that sweet season gave,
And, coming to the church, stopped short
Beside my daughter's grave.
« Nine summers had she scarcely seen,
The pride of all the vale ;
And then she sang ;-she would have been
A very nightingale.
« Six feet in earth my Emma lay;
And yet I loved her more,
For so it seemed, than till that day
I e'er had loved before.

Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er,
Is silent as a standing pool:
Far from the chimney's merry roar,
And murmur of the village school.

The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs
Of one tired out with fun and madness;
The tears which came to Matthew's eyes
Were tears of light, the dew of gladness.

« And, turning from her grave, I met,
Beside the churchyard Yew,
A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet
With points of morning dew.
«A basket on her head she bare;
Her brow was smooth and white:
To see a Child so very fair,
It was a pure delight!

Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup
Of still and serious thought went round,
It seemed as if he drank it up-
He felt with spirit so profound.

«No fountain from its rocky cave Eer tripped with foot so free ; She seemed as happy as a wave That dances on the sea.

-Thou Soul of God's best carthly mould !
Thou happy Soul! and can it be
That these two words of glittering gold
Are all that must remain of thee?

« There came from me a sigh of pain
Which I could ill confine;
I looked at her, and looked again :
-And did not wish her mine.»

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. We walked along, while bright and red Uprose the morning sun; And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, # The will of God be done!»

Matthew is in his grave, yet now,
Methinks, I see him stand,
As at that moment, with a bough
Of wilding in his hand.

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