"Now both himself and me he wrongs, "And, Matthew, for thy children dead At this he grasped my hand, and said, We rose up from the fountain-side; Of the green sheep-track did we glide; And, ere we came to Leonard's rock, 60 65 70 1799. XIII. PERSONAL TALK. I. I AM not One who much or oft delight Painted on rich men's floors, for one feastnight. Better than such discourse doth silence long, Long, barren silence, square with my desire; 10 II. "Yet life," you say, "is life; we have seen and see, And with a living pleasure we describe; 15 Sound sense, and love itself, and mirth and glee More justly balanced; partly at their feet, III. Wings have we,-and as far as we can go Are a substantial world, both pure and good : Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, 35 Our pastime and our happiness will grow. Matter wherein right voluble I am, Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear, 40 IV. Nor can I not believe but that hereby Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought, 45 Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought: 50 And thus from day to day my little boat Then gladly would I end my mortal days. 55 XIV. 1806. (?) ILLUSTRATED BOOKS AND NEWSPAPERS. DISCOURSE was deemed Man's noblest attribute, And written words the glory of his hand; Then followed Printing with enlarged com mand For thought-dominion vast and absolute 6 Must lacquey a dumb Art that best can suit age 10 Back towards caverned life's first rude career. 1846. XV. TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND (AN AGRICULTURIST). Composed while we were labouring together in his pleasure-ground. SPADE! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands, And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side, Thou art a tool of honour in my hands; I press thee, through the yielding soil, with pride. Rare master has it been thy lot to know; Health, meekness, ardour, quietness secure, Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing 5 10 Or in some silent field, while timid spring 15 Is yet uncheered by other minstrelsy. Who shall inherit Thee when death has laid Low in the darksome cell thine own dear lord? That man will have a trophy, humble Spade! A trophy nobler than a conqueror's sword. 20 If he be one that feels, with skill to part He will not dread with Thee a toilsome day— His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn; adorn His rustic chimney with the last of Thee! 1806. (?) XVI. A NIGHT THOUGHT. Lo! where the Moon along the sky Or dimly seen, But when the clouds asunder fly Far different we-a froward race, Thousands though rich in Fortune's grace 5 |