EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. "WHY, William, on that old grey stone, Why, William, sit you thus alone, "Where are your books?-that light bequeathed "You look round on your mother Earth, One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, "The eye-it cannot choose but see; "Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum "Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, I sit upon this old grey stone, THE TABLES TURNED; AN EVENING SCENE ON THE SAME SUBJECT. UP! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland Linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher : Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to blessSpontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood 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 these barren leaves: Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. DEAR Child of Nature, let them rail ! A harbour and a hold; Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see Thy own delightful days, and be A light to young and old. There, healthy as a Shepherd-boy, And treading among flowers of joy Which at no season fade, Thou, while thy Babes around thee cling, Shalt show us how divine a thing A Woman may be made. Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh, A melancholy slave; But an old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night, Shall lead thee to thy grave. TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE, SIX YEARS OLD. O THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought; The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol; In such clear water, that thy boat May rather seem To brood on air than on an earthly stream; Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, Where earth and heaven do make one imagery; O blessed Vision! happy Child! That art so exquisitely wild, I think of thee with many fears For what may be thy lot in future years. I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, Lord of thy house and hospitality; And Grief, uneasy Lover! never rest But when she sate within the touch of thee. O too industrious folly! O vain and causeless melancholy! Nature will either end thee quite; Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, Preserve for thee, by individual right, A young Lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. What hast Thou to do with sorrow, Or the injuries of to-morrow? |