But he is weak, both Man and Boy, Hath been an idler in the land; The things which others understand. - Come hither in thy hour of strength; VII. TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND, (AN AGRICULTURIST.) COMPOSED WHILE WE WERE LABOURING TOGETHER IN HIS PLEASURE-GROUND. SPADE! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his Lands, And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side, Thou art a tool of honour in my hands; I press thee, through the yielding soil, with pride. Rare Master has it been thy lot to know; Health, meekness, ardour, quietness secure, And elegant enjoyments, that are pure Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing Who shall inherit Thee when death has laid If he be One that feels, with skill to part With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day, His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn; VIII. TO MY SISTER. WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY. 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, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine) 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. Love, now an universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth: One moment now may give us more Than fifty years of reason: Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season. Some silent laws our hearts will make, Which they shall long obey: We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day. |