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One to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can cling

Nor form nor feeling great nor small,

A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,

An intellectual All in All!

Shut close the door! press down the latch :

Sleep in thy intellectual crust,

Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch,

Near this unprofitable dust.

But who is He with modest looks,
And clad in homely russet brown ?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own.

He is retired as noontide dew,

Or fountain in a noonday grove;
And
He will seem worthy of your

you must love him, ere to you
love.

The outward shews of sky and earth,

Of hill and valley he has view'd;

And impulses of deeper birth

Have come to him in solitude.

In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart
The harvest of a quiet eye

That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

But he is weak, both man and boy,

Hath been an idler in the land;

Contented if he might enjoy

The things which others understand.

-Come hither in thy hour of strength, Come, weak as is a breaking wave! Here stretch thy body at full length; Or build thy house upon this grave.

A CHARACTER,

In the antithetical Manner.

I marvel how Nature could ever find space
For the weight and the levity seen in his face :
There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness

and bloom,

And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.

There's weakness, and strength both redundant and vain ;

Such strength, as if ever affliction and pain

Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,
Would be rational peace-a philosopher's ease.

There's indifference, alike when he fails and succeeds, And attention full ten times as much as there needs, Pride where there's no envy, there's so much of joy; And mildness, and spirit both forward and coy.

There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident stare
Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there.
There's virtue, the title it surely may claim,

Yet wants, heaven knows what, to be worthy the name.

What a picture! 'tis drawn without nature or art,
-Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart,
And I for five centuries right gladly would be
Such an odd, such a kind happy creature as he.

A FRAGMENT.

Between two sister moorland rills

There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flowrets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.

And in this smooth and open dell
There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a cottage hut;
And in this dell you see

A thing no storm can e'er destroy, The shadow of a Danish Boy.

In clouds above, the lark is heard, He sings his blithest and his best;

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