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The mind that is within us, so impress
LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
I heard a thousand blended notes,
To her fair works did Nature link
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The birds around me hopped and played,
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
If this belief from heaven be sent,
A POET'S EPITAPH.
Art thou a Statist in the van Of public conflicts trained and bred ? -First learn to love one living man ; Then may'st 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, Thy ever-dwindling soul, away! 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 ; A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, An intellectual All-in-all !
Shut close the door; press down the latch;
But who is He, with modest looks,
He is retired as noontide dew,
The outward shows of sky and earth,
But he is weak; both Man and Boy,
-Come hither in thy hour of strength;
(1799., LUCY GRAY; OR, SOLITUDE
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child. No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, —The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. “To-night will be a stormy nightYou to the town must go; And take a lantern, Child, to light Your mother through the snow.' “That, Father! will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoonThe 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.