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THE TABLES TURNED;
AN EVENING SCENE, on the same Subject.
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;
We murder to dissect."
Enough of Science and of Art;
ANIMAL TRANQUILLITY and 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 hath such mild composure given, That patience now doth seem a thing of which He hath no need. He is by nature led
To peace so perfect, that the young behold