Poems of Sentiment and Beflection.
"WHY, William, on that old gray stone, Thus for the length of half a day, Why, William, sit you thus alone, And dream your time away?
AN EVENING SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
UP! up! my friend, and quit your books;
Where are your books?-that light be- Or surely you'll grow double:
To beings else forlorn and blind! Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed From dead men to their kind.
"You look round on your mother earth, As if she for no purpose bore you; As if you were her first-born birth, And none had lived before you !"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake, And thus I made reply-
"The eye-it cannot choose but see; We cannot bid the ear be still; Our bodies feel, where'er they be, Against, or with our will.
"Nor less I deem that there are powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness.
"Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come, But we must still be seeking?
"Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, Conversing as I may,
I sit upon this old gray stone, And dream my time away."
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks. Why all this toil and trouble?
The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis 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, Our minds and hearts to bless- Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
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; Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things. We murder to dissect.
Enough of science and of art;
Close up these barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
Whose high endeavours are an inward That makes the path before him always Who, with a natural instinct to discern bright: 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, [receives;
Of their bad influence, and their good 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. 'Tis he whose law is reason; who depends Upon that law as on the best of friends; Whence, in a state where men are tempted
To evil for a guard against worse ill, And what in quality or act is best Doth 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 in himself possess his own desire; Who comprehends his trust, and to the
Keeps faithful with a singleness of aim; And therefore does not stoop, nor lie in wait
[state; For wealth, or honours, or for worldly Whom they must follow; on whose head must fall, [all: Like showers of manna, if they come at 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 in- spired;
And, through the heat of conflict, keeps
In calmness made, and sees what he fore- 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 :-
"Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high Conspicuous object in a nation's eye, Or left unthought-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
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 nor small; A reasoning self-sufficient 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 fountain in a noon-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,
COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING TOGETHER IN HIS PLEASURE-GROUND.
SPADE! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands, [side, And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's Thou art a tool of honour 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;
[low, Whose life combines the best of high and 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;-too pure to be refined.
Here often hast thou heard the poet sing In concord with his river niurmuring 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!
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