Imagens das páginas


There's George Fisher, Charles Fleming,

and Reginald Shore, Three rosy-cheek's School-boys, the 'highest

not more Than the height of a Counsellor's bag; To the top of Great How* did it please them

to climb, And there they built up without mortar or lime A Man on the Peak of the Crag.

Great How is a single and conspicuous Hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirl-mere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the high road between Keswick and Amble. side.

They built him of stones gather'd up as they

lay, They built him and christen'Jhim all in one day, An Urchin both vigorous and hale, And so without scruple they call’d him Ralph

Jones: Now Ralph is renown’d for the length of his

bones, The Magog of Legberthwaite dale.

Just half a week after the Wind sallied forth,
And, in anger or merriment, out of the North,
Coming on with a terrible pother,
From the Peak of the Crag blew the Giant

away: And what did these School-boys!--The very

next day They went and they built up another!

Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works
In Paris and London, 'mong Christians or Turks
Spirits busy to do and undo:
At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes

will flag. -Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the

And I'll build up a Giant with you.


ART thou a Statesmen, in the van
Of public business train'd and bred?
-First learn to love one living man;
Then may’st thou think upon the dead.

A Lawyer art thou?-draw not nigh;
Go, carry to some other place
The hardness of thy coward eye,
The falsehood of thy sallow face.

Art thou a man of purple cheer?
A rosy man, right plump to see?
Approach; yet Doctor, not too near:
This grave no cushion is for thee.

Art thou a man of gallant pride,
A Soldier, and no man of chaff?
Welcome !-but lay thy sword aside
And lean upon a Peasant's staff.


Physician art thou? One, all eyes,
Philosopher! a fingering slave,
One that would pecp and botanize
C'pon his mother's grave?

Wrapp'd closely in thy sensual fleece
O turn aside, and take, I pray,
That he below may rest in peace,
Thy pin-point of a soul away!

--A Moralist' perchance appears;
Led, Heaven knows how to this poor sod:
And He has neither eyes nor ears!'
Himself his world, and his own God;

One to whose smooth-rubb’d soul can cling
Nor form nor feeling great not 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 noon-day grove;
And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of



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



« AnteriorContinuar »