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Öne to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can cling
Nor form nor feeling great nor small,
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,
An intellectual All in All!
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 noonday grove ;
must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
The outward shews of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley he has view'd ;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.
In common things that round us lic
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.-
In the antithetical Manner.
I marvel how Nature could ever find space
For the weight and the levity seen in his face :
There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness
And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.
There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain;
Such strength, as if ever affli&tion and pain
Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,
Would be rational peace-a philosopher's ease.
There's indifference, alike when he fails and succeeds, And attention full ten times as much as there needs, Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy; And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.
There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare
Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there.
There's virtue, the title it surely may claim,
Yet wants, heaven knows what, to be worthy the name.
What a picture! 'tis drawn without nature or art,
Yet the Man'would at once run away with your heart,
And I for five centuries right gladly would be
Such an odd, such a kind happy creature as he.
Between two sister moorland rils
There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flowrets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky,
And in this smooth and
There is a tempest-stricken tree;'
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a cottage hut;
And in this dell you see
A thing no storm can e'er destroyy:
The shadow of a Danish Boy.
In clouds above, the lark is heard,
He sings his blithest and his best;