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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 freshening 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 your teacher.

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 lore which Nature brings;

Our meddling intellect

Misshapes 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.



The little hedge-row birds

That peck along the road, regard him not.
He travels on, and in his face, his step,
His gait, is one expression; every limb,

His look and bending figure, all bespeak

A man who does not move with pain, but moves With thought. He is insensibly subdued

To settled quiet: he is one by whom

All effort seems forgotten; one to whom

Long patience hath such mild composure given, That patience now doth seem a thing of which

He hath no need. He is by nature led

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To peace so perfect, that the

young behold

With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels.

-I asked him whither he was bound, and what

The object of his journey: he replied

That he was going many miles to take

A last leave of his Son, a Mariner,

Who from a sea-fight had been brought to Falmouth,

And there was dying in an hospital.

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