She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, 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 those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. LXXV PERSONAL TALK I I AM not One who much or oft delight 1798 And, for my chance-acquaintance, ladies bright, Sons, mothers, maidens withering on the stalk, These all wear out of me, like Forms, with chalk Painted on rich men's floors, for one feast-night. Better than such discourse doth silence long, In the loved presence of my cottage-fire, "Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see, And with a living pleasure we describe; And fits of sprightly malice do but bribe The languid mind into activity. Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee Our daily world's true Worldlings, rank not me ! Children are blest, and powerful; their world lies Whose mind is but the mind of his own eyes, III Wings have we,-and as far as we can go, Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow. There find I personal themes, a plenteous store, To which I listen with a ready ear; Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear,- IV Nor can I not believe but that hereby Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I And thus from day to day my little boat Blessings be with them-and eternal praise, LXXVI GLEN-ALMAIN; OR, THE NARROW GLEN In this still place, remote from men, Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent As by a spirit turbulent ; Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, And everything unreconciled; In some complaining, dim retreat, For fear and melancholy meet; Does then the Bard sleep here indeed? What matters it ?—I blame them not Was moved; and in such way expressed Their notion of its perfect rest. Would break the silence of this Dell: But something deeper far than these: Is of the grave; and of austere |