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

Misshapes 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.

1798

III.

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sat reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran ;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 't is my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure : —
But the least motion which they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

IV.

1798

A CHARACTER.

I MARVEL how Nature could ever find space For so many strange contrasts in one human face: There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom,

And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.

There's weakness, and strength both redundant

and vain ;

Such strength as, if ever affliction 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 or 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.

This picture from nature may seem to depart, 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.

1800.

V.

TO MY SISTER.

Ir is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before

The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,

Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.

My sister! ('t is a wish of mine,)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you; - and, pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate

Our living calendar:

We from to-day, my Friend, will date

The opening of the year.

Love, now a universal birth,

From heart to heart is stealing,

From earth to man, from man to earth

One moment now may give us more
Than years of toiling reason:

Our minds shall drink at every pore

The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts will make,

Which they shall long obey:

We for the year to come may take

Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls

About, below, above,

We'll frame the measure of our souls:

They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my

Sister! come, I prav.

With speed put on your woodland dress, And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.

VI.

SIMON LEE,

THE OLD HUNTSMAN:

1790.

WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED,

In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall,
An old Man dwells, a little man,
"T is said he once was tall.