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Why, William, on that old gray stone,
“Where are your books ?--that light bequeath'd “ To beings else forlorn and blind ! “Up! up! and drink the spirit breath'd “ From dead men to their kind.
• You look round on your mother earth, « As if she for no purpose
you; “ As if you were her first-born birth, “ And none had lived before you!"
One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
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
" -Then ask'not wherefore, here, alone, “ Conversing as I may, « I sit upon
this old gray stone, “ And dream
THE TABLES TURNED;
An EVENING SCENE, on the same Subject.
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
The sun, above the mountain's head,
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife :
Come, hear the woodland Linnet,
And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings !
She has a world of ready wealth,
One impulse from a vernal wood