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And let him, wbere and when he will, sit down
Beneath the trees, or by the grassy bank
Of high-way side, and with the little birds
Share his chance-gather'd meal, and, finally,
As in the eye of Nature he has liv’d,
So in the eye of Nature let bim die.

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There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming, and Reginald

Shore, Three rosy-cheek'd School-boys, the highest not more Than the height of a Counsellor's bag ; To the top of Great How did it please them to climb, And there they built up without mortar or lime A Man on the peak of the crag."

They built him of stones gather'd up as they lay,
They built him and christend him all in one day,
An Urchin both vigorous and hale ;
And so without scruple they call'd him Ralph Jones,
Now Ralph is renown!d for the length of his bones to
The Magog of Legberthwaite dale.


Just half a week after the Wind sallied forth,
And, in anger or merriment, out of the North
Coming on with a terrible pother,
From the peak of the crag blew the Giant away.
And what did these School-boys ?-The very next day
They went and they built up


-Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works
In Paris and London, 'mong Christians or Turks,
Spirits busy to do and undo :
At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will fag.
-Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the Crag!
And I'll build up a Giant with you.

Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirl-mere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the high road between Keswick and Ambleside,


Art thou a Statesman, in the van
Of public business train'd and bred,
-First learn to love one living man ;
Tben may'st thou think upon the dead.

A Lawyer art thou ?-draw not nigh;
Go, carry to some other place
The hardness of thy coward eye,
The falshood of thy 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.

Art thou a man of gallant pride,
A Soldier, and no man of chaff ?
Welcome I-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?

Wrapp'd closely in thy sensual fleece.
O turn aside, and take, I pray,
That he below may rest in peace,
Thy pin-point of a 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;

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