No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light 80 From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, That tinkle in the withered leaves below. Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, Charms more than silence. Meditation here 85 May think down hours to moments. heart May give a useful lesson to the head, Here the And learning wiser grow without his books. Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have oftimes no connection. Knowledge dwells 90 In heads replete with thoughts of other men, Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass, The mere materials with which wisdom builds, Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place, 95 Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much; Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. 560 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 565 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, 570 A visitor unwelcome, into scenes Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove, Not so when, held within their proper bounds, 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. The spring-time of our years 590 Is soon dishonoured and defiled in most By budding ills, that ask a prudent hand To check them. But, alas! none sooner shoots, If unrestrained, into luxuriant growth, Than cruelty, most devilish of them all. 595 Mercy to him that shows it, is the rule And righteous limitation of its act, By which Heaven moves in pardoning guilty man, And he that shows none, being ripe in years, And conscious of the outrage he commits, 600 Shall seek it and not find it in his turn. Distinguished much by reason, and still more From creatures that exist but for our sake, Of what He deems no mean or trivial trust. Not more on human help than we on theirs. 610 Their strength, or speed, or vigilance, were given In aid of our defects. In some are found Such teachable and apprehensive parts, That man's attainments in his own concerns, Matched with the expertness of the brutes in theirs, 615 Are oftimes vanquished and thrown far behind. ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE OUT OF NORFOLK (Cir. 1790) THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN BODHAM O That those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; 5 Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away! The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blessed be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 10 To quench it) here shines on me still the same. Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! 15 I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: 20 A momentary dream, that thou art she. My mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? 25 Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss: Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 30 And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? It was.-Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 35 The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. 40 By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learnt at last submission to my lot; 45 But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, 50 Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! But the record fair 55 That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; 60 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and All this, and more endearing still than all, Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, 75 When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flow ers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile.) 80 Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? I would not trust my heart—the dear delight |