One summer-day I chanced to see
This old Man doing all he could
To unearth the root of an old tree,
A stump of rotten wood.

The mattock tottered in his hand;
So vain was his endeavour,
That at the root of the old tree

He might have worked for ever.

"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool," to him I said d;
And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.

I struck, and with a single blow
The tangled root I severed,

At which the poor old Man so long
And vainly had endeavoured.

The tears into his eyes were brought,
And thanks and praises seemed to run
So fast out of his heart, I thought
They never would have done.

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I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning ;

Alas! the gratitude of men

Hath oftener left me mourning.

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1798.

LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

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The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;

And 't is my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

IO

The birds around me hopped and played,

Their thoughts I cannot measure : —

But the least motion which they made

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It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

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.

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If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

TO MY SISTER.

It is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before,

The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,

1798.

Which seems a sense of joy to yield

To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.

My sister! ('t is a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you;

- and, pray,

Put on with speed your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living calendar:

We from to-day, my Friend, will date
The opening of the year.

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Love, now a universal birth,

From heart to heart is stealing,

From earth to man, from man to earth :

It is the hour of feeling.

And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above,

We'll frame the measure of our souls:

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They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my Sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
And bring no book: for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.

"WHY, William, on that old grey stone,

Thus for the length of half a day,

Why, William, sit you thus alone,

And dream your time away?

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1798.

"Where are your books?

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To Beings else forlorn and blind!
Up! up and drink the spirit breathed
From dead men to their kind.

"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:

"The eye — it cannot choose but see;
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where'er they be,
Against or with our will.

"Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; That we can feed this mind of ours

In a wise passiveness.

"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."

IO

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1798.