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EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.
Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing, save the waves and I,
There, swan-like, let me sing and die.
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.- IVordsworth.
" 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?
6 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.
THE TABLES TURNED.
“ Nor less I deem that there are Powers
Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feel this mind of ours
In a wise passiveness.
“ Think you, ʼmid all this mighty sum
Of things for ever speaking, That nothing of itself will come,
But we must still be seeking ?
6. Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,
Conversing as I may,
And dream my time away.”
THE TABLES TURNED.-- Wordsworth.
AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
UP! up! my friend, and quit your books ;
Or surely you 'll grow double :
Why all this toil and trouble?
The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
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.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings !
He, too, is no mean preacher :
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
May teach you more of man,
Than all the sages can.
Our meddling intellect
We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up these barren leaves ;
That watches and receives.
MANHOOD.C. A. Dana.
DEAR, noble soul, wisely thy lot thou bearest ;
And thus with thee bright angels maks their dwelling, Bringing thee stores of strength when no man know
The ocean-stream from God's heart ever swelling,
THE CLOUD. - Shelley
I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
In their noonday dreams.
The sweet buds every one,
As she dances about the sun.
And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 't is my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Lightning my pilot sits ;
It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the lakes and the plains,
The spirit he loves remains;
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
And his burning plumes outspread,
When the morning star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea be
neath, Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,
As still as a brooding dove.
Whom mortals call the moon,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,