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With all his canvas set, and inexpert,

And therefore heedless, can withstand thy power?

Praise from the ri veiled lips of toothless, bald

Decrepitude, and in the looks of lean

And craving poverty, and in the bow Respectful of the smutched artificer, Is oft too welcome, and may much disturb

The bias of the purpose. How

much more Poured forth by beauty splendid and

polite.

In language soft as adoration breathes?

Ah, spare your idol! think him human still;

Charms he may have, but he has frailties too;

Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire.

[From The Tali.)
THE FREEDOM OF THE GOOD.

He is the freeman whom the truth

makes free, And all are slaves beside. There's

not a chain That hellish foes confederate for his

harm

Can wind around him, but he casts it off

With as much ease as Samson his

green withes. He looks abroad into the varied field Of nature, and though poor perhaps,

compared With those whose mansions glitter

in his sight, Calls the delightful scenery all his

own.

His are the mountains, and the valleys his, And the resplendent rivers.

Yes—you may fill your garners, ye

that reap The loaded soil, and ye may waste

much good

In senseless riot; but ye will not find In feast or in the chase, in song or dance,

A liberty like his, who unimpeached Of usurpation, and to no man's wrong.

Appropriates nature as his Father's work,

And has a richer use of yours, than you.

He is indeed a freeman; free by birth Of no mean city, planned or e'er the hills

Were built, the fountains opened, or the sea

With all his roaring multitude of waves.

His freedom is the same in every state;

And no condition of this changeful life,

So manifold in cares, whose every day

Brings its own evil with it, makes it less:

For he has wings that neither sickness, pain,

Nor penury can cripple or confine.

No nook so narrow but he spreads them there

With ease, and is at large. The oppressor holds

His body bound, but knows not what a range

His spirit takes, unconscious of a chain,

And that to bind him is a vain attempt

Whom God delights in, and in whom he dwells.

[From The Task:]

THE WINTER'S EVENING.

Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,

Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,

And, while the bubbling and loudhissing urn

Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,

[graphic]

That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,

So let us welcome peaceful evening in. Not such his evening, who with shining face

Sweats in the crowded theatre, and, squeezed

And bored with elbow-points through

both his sides, Outscokls the ranting actor on the

stage:

Nor his, who patient stands till his

feet throb, • And his head thumps, to feed upon

the breath Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage, Or placemen, all tranquillity and

smiles.

This folio of four pages, happy work! Which not even critics criticize; that holds

.Inquisitive attention, while I read, Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair.

Though eloquent themselves, yet fear

to break; What is it but a map of busy life, Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?

'Tis pleasant, through the loopholes

of retreat, To peep at such a world; to see the

stir

Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;

To hear the roar she sends through

all her gates At a safe distance, where the dying

sound

Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.

Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease

The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced

To some secure and more than mortal height,

That liberates and exempts me from them all.

It turns submitted to my view, turns round

With.all its generations; I behold The tumult, and am still. The sound of war

Has lost its terrors ere it reaches me; Grieves, but alarms me not. I mourn

the pride And avarice, that make man a wolf

to man;

Hear the faint echo of those brazen throats,

By which he speaks the language of

his heart, And sigh, but never tremble at the

sound.

He travels and expatiates, as the bee From flower to flower, so he from

land to land; The manners, customs, policy, of all Pay contribution to the store he

gleans;

He sucks intelligence in every clime, And spreads the honey of his deep research

At his return,—a rich repast for me. He travels, and I too. I tread his deck,

Ascend his topmast, through his

peering eyes Discover countries, with a kindred

heart

Suffer his woes, and share in his escapes;

While fancy, like the finger of a clock,

Runs the great circuit, and is still at home.

0 winter, ruler of the inverted year, Thy scattered hair with sleet like

ashes filled,

Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks

Fringed with a beard made white with other snows

Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds,

A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne

A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,

But urged by storms along its slippery way,

I love thee, all unlovely as thou

seem'st,

And dreaded as thou art! Thou

hold'st the sun A prisoner in the yet undawning

east,

[graphic]

Shortening his journey between morn

and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his

stay,

Down to the rosy west; but kindly still

Compensating his loss with added hours

Of social converse and instructive ease,

And gathering at short notice, in one group

The family dispersed, and fixing thought,

Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares.

I crown thee king of intimate delights,

Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness,

And all the comforts that the lowly roof

Of undisturbed retirement, and the hours

Of long uninterrupted evening, know. No rattling wheels stop short before

these gates; No powdered pert proficient in the

art

Of sounding an alarm assaults these doors

Till the street rings; no stationary steeds

Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the sound.

The silent circle fan themselves, and quake:

But here the needle plies its busy task,

The pattern grows, the well-depicted flower,

Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn,

Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs,

And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed,

Follow the nimble finger of the fair;

A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers, that blow

With most success when all besides decay.

The poet's or historian's page by one

Made vocal for the amusement of the

rest;

The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of

sweet sounds The touch from many a trembling

chord shakes out; And the clear voice symphonious, yet

distinct,

And in the charming strife triumphant still,

Beguile the night, and set a keener edge

On female industry: the threaded steel

Flies swiftly, and unf elt the task proceeds.

[From The Tatk.]
MERCY TO ANIMALS.

I Would not enter on my list of friends,

(Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, Yet wanting sensibility,) the man Who needlessly sets" foot upon a worm.

An inadvertent step may crush the snail

That crawls at evening in the public path;

But he that has humanity, forewarned,

Will tread aside, and let the reptile live.

The creeping vermin, loathsome to

the sight, And charged perhaps with venom,

that intrudes, A visitor unwelcome, into scenes Sacred to neatness and repose, the

alcove,

The chamber, or refectory, may die:
A necessary act incurs no blame.
Not so when, held within their proper
bounds,

And guiltless of offence, they range the air

Or take their pastime in the spacious field.

There they are privileged; and he that hunts

Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong.

Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm,

Who, when she formed, designed them an abode.

The sum is this: If man's convenience, health,

Or safety interfere, his rights and claims

Are paramount, and must extinguish theirs.

Else they are all — the meanest things

that are — As free to live, and to enjoy that life, As God was free to form them at the

first.

Who in his sovereign wisdom made them all.

Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach

your sons To love it too.

[From The Task.]
THE POST-SO r.

Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! o'er yonder bridge, That with its wearisome but needless length

Bestrides the wintry flood; in which

the moon Sees her unwrinkled face reflected

bright: — He comes, the herald of a noisy world, With spattered boots, strapped waist,

and frozen locks, News from all nations lumbering at

his back.

True to his task, the close-packed

load behind. Yet careless what he brings, his one

concern

Is to conduct it to the destined inn: And having dropped the expected

bag, pass on. He whistles as he goes, light-hearted

wretch,

Cold and yet cheerful: messenger of grief

Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some: (joy. To him indifferent whether grief or

[From Retirement.]

THE SOUL' S PROGRESS CHECKED BY TOO ABS0RB1XQ LOVE.

As woodbine weds the plant within

her reach, Rough elm, or smooth-grained ash,

or glossy beech, In spiral rings ascends the trunk, and

lays

Her golden tassels on the leafy sprays, But does a mischief while she lends a grace,

Straitening its growth by such a strict embrace,

So love that clings around the noblest minds,

Forbids the advancement of the soul he binds.

ALEXANDER SELKIRK.

I Am monarch of all I survey,
My right there is none to dispute,

From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.

O solitude! where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face?

Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the sweet music of speech;

I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain,

My form with indifference see. They are so unacquainted with man,

Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestowed upon man. Oh, had I the wings of a dove,

How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth. Might learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheered by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold
Resides in that heavenly word!

More precious than silver and gold,

Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell,

These valleys and rocks never heard,

Ne'er sighed at the sound of a knell, Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared.

Ye winds that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate shore, Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send

A wish or a thought after me? O tell me I yet have a friend, Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is the glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight,

The tempest itself lags behind, And the swift-winged arrows of light.

When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there;

But alas! recollection at hand
Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl has gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair, Even here is a season of rest,

And 1 to my cabin repair. There's mercy in every place,

And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

TO MARY.

The twentieth year is well nigh past Since first our sky was overcast; — Ah, would that this might be the last!

My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow; —
'Twas my distress that brought thee
low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more,
My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary!

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,

And all thy threads with magic art, Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary!

Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language uttered in a dream:
Yet me they charm, whate'er the
theme,

My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, Are still more lovely in my sight Than golden beams of orient light, My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee, What sight worth seeing could I see?

The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!

Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign:
Yet gently pressed, press gently mine,
My Mary!

Such feebleness of limb thou provest,
That now at every step thou movest,
Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest,
My Mary!

And still to love, though pressed with ill,

In wintry age to feel no chill.
With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know, How oft the sadness that I show Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe 1 My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary!

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