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Öne to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can cling
Nor form nor 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,s..,
Near this unprofitable dust. . .
But who is He with modest looks, ..s
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 fountain in a 'noonday grove ;
And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love.
The outward shews of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley he has view'd;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.
In common things that round us lic
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..
In the antithetical Manner.
I marvel how Nature could ever find space
For the weight and the levity seen in his face :
There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness
And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.
There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;
Such strength, as if ever affli&ion 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 and 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
Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there.
There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, .
Yet wants, heaven knows what, to be worthy the name.
What a pi&ture ! 'tis drawn without nature or art,
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. **
Between two sister moorland rills :.7777"1"
There is a spot that seems to lie :. i. i
Sacred to flowrets of the hills,' . t..int
And sacred to the sky, .i. i ...
And in this smooth and open dell
There is a tempest-stricken trees. . '
A corner stone by lightning cuts -. ' '
The last stone of a cottage hut; : -::!.
And in this dell you see ..n
A thing no storm can e'er destroy, i
The shadow of a Danish Boy.
In clouds above, the lark is heard,
He sings his blithest and his best;