« ForrigeFortsæt »
“ Think you, mid all this mighty sum
" -Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, “ Conversing as I may, I sit
upon this old grey stone, « And dream
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,
The sun, above the mountain's head,
Books ! 'tis a dull and endless strife,
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings !
She has a world of ready wealth,
One impulse from a vernal wood
Sweet is the lore which nature brings ;
Enough of science and of art;
ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY & DECAY.
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