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“ Think you, mid all this mighty sum
“Of things for ever speaking,
“ That nothing of itself will come,
“ But we must still be seeking ?

" -Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, “ Conversing as I may, I sit

upon this old grey stone, « And dream

my time


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Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,
Why all this toil and trouble ?
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,
Or surely you'll grow double.

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, here the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music; on my life
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings !
And he is no mean preacher ;
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be



She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by chearfulness.

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
Mishapes 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.



The little hedge-row birds That peck along the road, regard him not. He travels on, and in his face, his step, His gait, is one expression ; every limb, His look and bending figure, all bespeak A man who does not move with pain, but moves With thought-He is insensibly subdued To settled quiet: he is one by whom All effort seems forgotten, one to whom Long patience has such mild composure given, That patience now doth seem a thing, of which He hath no need. He is by nature led

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