Moved many a sigh at its disheart'ning length. Yet feeling present evils, while the past Faintly impress the mind, or not at all, How readily we wish time spent revoked, That we might try the ground again, where once (Through inexperience as we now perceive) We miss'd that happiness we might have round. Some friend is gone, perhaps his son's best friend A father, whose authority, in show
When most severe, and must'ring all its force, Was but the graver countenance of love;
Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might low'r, And utter now and then an awful voice, But had a blessing in its darkest frown, Threat'ning at once and nourishing the plant. We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age allured By ev'ry gilded folly, we renounced His shelt'ring side, and wilfully forewent That converse which we now in vain regret. How gladly would the man recall to life The boy's neglected sire! a mother too. That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still, Might he demand them at the gates of death. Sorrow has since they went subdued and tamed The playful humour; he could now endure (Himself grown sober in the vale of tears) And feel a parent's presence no restraint. But not to understand a treasure's worth Till time has stol'n away the slighted good, Is cause of half the poverty we feel, And makes the world the wilderness it is. The few that pray at all pray oft amiss,
And, seeking grace t' improve the prize they hold, Would urge a wiser suit than asking more.
The night was winter in his roughest mood, The morning sharp and clear; but now at noon Upon the southern side of the slant hills.
And where the woods fence off the northern blast, The season smiles, resigning all its rage,
And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue Without a cloud, and white without a speck The dazzling splendour of the scene below. Again the harmony comes o'er the vale,
And through the trees I view th' embattled tow'r
Whence all the music. I again perceive The soothing influence of the wafted strains, And settle in soft musings, as I tread
The walk still verdant under oaks and elms, Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. The roof, though moveable through all its length, As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, And, intercepting in their silent fall
The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. No noise is here, or none that hinders thought The redbreast warbles still, but is content With slender notes and more than half suppress'u. Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, Charms more than silence. Meditation here May think down hours to moments. May give an useful lesson to the head, And learning wiser grow without his books. Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have ofttimes no connexion. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men ; Wisdom in minds attentive o their own. Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass,
The mere materials with which wisdom builds, Till smooth'd and squared and fitted to its place, Does but encumber whom it seems t' enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd so much. Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. Books are not seldom talismans and spells By which the magic art of shrewder wits Holds an unthinking multitude inthrall'd. Some to the fascination of a name
Surrender judgment hoodwink'd. Some the style Infatuates, and, through labyrinths and wilds Of error, leads them by a tune entranced. While sloth seduces more, too weak to bear The insupportable fatigue of thought,
And swallowing therefore without pause or choice The total grist unsifted, husks and all.
But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer.
And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs,
And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root, Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth, Not shy as in the world, and to be won
By slow solicitation, seize at once
The roving thought, and fix it on themselves.
What prodigies can pow'r divine perform More grand, than it produces year by year, And all in sight of inattentive man? Familiar with th' effect we slight the cause, And in the constancy of nature's course, The regular return of genial months, And renovation of a faded world,
See nought to wonder at. Should God again, As once in Gibeon, interrupt the race Of the undeviating and punctual sun,
How would the world admire! but speaks it less An agency divine, to make him know
His moment when to sink and when to rise Age after age, than to arrest his course All we behold is miracle; but, seen
So duly, all is miracle in vain.
Where now the vital energy that moved, While summer was, the and subtle lymph Through th' imperceptible meand'ring veins Of leaf and flow'r? It sleeps; and th' icy touch Of unprolific winter has impress'd
A cold stagnation on th' intestine tide.
But let the months go round, a few short months, And all shall be restored. These naked shoots, Barren as lances, among which the wind
Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes,
Shall put their graceful foliage on again,
And more aspiring and with ampler spread
Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost. Then, each in its peculiar honours clad,
Shall publish even to the distant eye Its family and tribe. Laburnum rich In streaming gold; syringa iv'ry pure; The scented and the scentless rose; this red And of a humbler growth, the other1 tall, And throwing up into the darkest gloom Of neighb'ring cypress, or more sable yew,
"The haunts or deer...
And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs, And lanes in which the primrose in her time
Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root, Deceive no student '-Pp. 290, 291.
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