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, And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side, 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;
Whose life combines the best of high and 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; 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!
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 consecrate.
His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn;
An heirloom in his cottage wilt thou be:
High will he hang thee up, and will adorn
His rustic chimney with the last of thee!
WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE,
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
Put on with speed your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.
No joyous forms shall regulate
Our living calendar :
We from to-day, my friend, will date
The opening of the year.
Love, now a universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth:
It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more
Than fifty years of reason;
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.
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 blessèd power that rolls
About, below, above,
We'll frame the measure of our souls:
They shall be turned 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.
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 thee cling,
Shalt show us how divine a thing
A woman may be made.
Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
Nor leave thee when gray 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.
WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sat reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
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 'tis my faith that every 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.
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-hall,
An old man dwells, a little man,
"Tis 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, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
He is the sole survivor.
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