LINES written in early spring. I heard a thousand blended notes, • In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did nature link The human soul that through me ran; Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower, The birds around me hopp'd and play'd : But the least motion which they made, The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. If I these thoughts may not prevent, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? the THOR N. I. There is a thorn; it looks so old, Not higher than a two-years' child, With lichens it is overgrown. II. Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop : Up from the earth these mosses creep, III. High on a mountain's highest ridge, Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds It sweeps from vale to vale; Not five yards from the mountain-path, This thorn you on your left espy; You see a little muddy pond Of water, never dry; I've measured it from side to side: 'Tis three feet long, and two feet wide. IV. And close beside this aged thorn, |