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Glide gently, thus for ever glide,
O Thames ! that other Bards may see,
As lovely visions by thy side
As now, fair river! come to me.
Oh glide, fair stream! for ever so;
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
'Till all our minds for ever flow,
As thy deep waters now are flowing:
Vain thought! yet be as now thou art,
That in thy waters may be seen
The image of a Poet's heart,
How bright, how solemn, how serene!
Such heart did once the Poet bless,
Who, pouring here a *luter ditty,
Could find no refuge from distress,
But in the milder grief of pity.
Remembrance! as we glide along,
For him suspend the dashing oar,
And pray that never child of Song
May know his freezing sorrows more.
How calın! how still! the only sound,
The dripping of the oar suspended !
-The evening darkness gathers found.
By virtue's holiest powers, attended.

* Collins's Ode on the death of Thomson, the last written, I believe, of the poems which were published during his life time. This Ode is also alluded to in the next stanza.




“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?

Where are your books ? that light bequeath'd “ To beings else forlorn and blind! “ Up! Up! and drink the spirit breath'd 6. From dead men to their kind.

“ You look round on your mother earth,
“ As if she for on 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


it cannot chuse but see, “ We cannot bid the ear be still; “ Our bodies feel, where'er they be,

Against, or with our will.

66 Nor less I deem that there are powers, “ Which of themselves our minds impress, 6. That we can feed this mind of ours, “ In a wise passiveness.

66 Think


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, 66 And dream my




An Evening Scene on the same Subject.

UP! Up! my friend, and clear your looks,
Why all this toil and trouble?
Up! Up! my friend, and quit your books
Or surely you'll grow double.

The sun above the mountain's head,
A freshning lustre mellow,
Through all the long green fields has spread
His first sweet evening yellow.

Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife,
Come, hear the woodland linnet;
How sweet his music! on my life
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
And he is no mean Preacher;
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be



She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man;
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the love which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things;
We murder to dissect.

Enough of science and of art;
Close up these barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

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