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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 Lless-
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.
TO THE SONS OF BURNS
After visiting their Father's Grave.
Ye now are panting up life’s hill !
'Tis twilight time of good and ill, .
And more than common strength and skill
Must ye display
If ye would give the better will
Its lawful sway.
Strong-bodied if ye be to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware!
But if your Father's wit ye share,
Then, then indeed,
Ye Sons of Burns! for watchful care
There will be need.
For honest men delight will take
To shew you favor for his sake,
Will flatter you; and Fool and Rake.
Your steps pursue : And of your Father's name will make
A snare for you.
Let no mean hope your souls enslave; Be independent, generous, brave! Your Father such example gave,
And such revere! But be admonish'd by his Grave,–
And think, and fear!
TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND,
(AN AGRICULTURIST.) Composed while we were labouring together in his Pleasure
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, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope 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 Heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be :-
High will be hang thee up, and will adorn
His rustic chinney with the last of Thee!