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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 away."
THE TABLES TURNED;
an evening scene, on the same subject.
Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,
Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,
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,
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
Come forth into the light of things,
She has a world of ready wealth,
One impulse from a vernal wood
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;
That watches and receives.
OLD MAN TRAVELLING;
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 has such mild composure given, That patience now doth seem a thing, of which He hath no need. He is by nature led