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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.
“ 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?
“ Where are your books?--that light bequeathed “ 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.”
AN EVENING SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT. .
UP! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble ?
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you'll grow double.
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.