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I would not kill one bird in wanton sport, I would not mingle jocund mirth with death, For all the smoking board, the savoury feast Can yield most exquisite to pamper'd sense!

Since nature wills that every living thing
Should gratify the purposes of man,
And wait his proud disposal, let him prove,
E'en in this delegated function, prove,
A deep humility, which fears to tread
Where the all-perfect, and unquestion❜d God
Hath wrought strange imperfection-perhaps to
bend,

And by the influence of an holy sadness,
To tame the o'erweening soul! not give a cause
For riotous Dominion, and for Power

Sweeping with mad career from off this world
Its fair inhabitants!

My friend, I knew

A man who liv'd in solitude: a dell
A mossy dell, green, woody, hung around
With various forest growth, was his abode.
And in the forest many a gleaming plot
Of tenderest grass, its island circlet spread!

This man did rear a hut, and lived and died
In that lone dell! He had no friend on earth,
Nor wanted one-For much he lov'd his God,
And much those works which e'en the lonely man
May taste abundantly! And he did think
So oft on life's great Author, that at last
He worshipp'd him in all things, and believ'd
His poorest creatures holy, and could see
"Religious meanings in the forms of nature,"
Dreaming he saw, e'en in the passing bird,
The crawling worm, or serpent on the grass,
An emanation of his Maker-so

That a new presence stung him into thought
And made him kneel and weep!

Well! this poor man

Liv'd on the scanty fruits this little dell
Afforded. Never did a dying writhe,
Or dying gasp, war with his sense of good.
At last he died, and such had been his life,
That when he yielded up his animal frame,
It only seem'd as if he went to sleep
More quietly than ever!

TO A YOUNG MAN,

Who considered the Perfection of Human Nature as consisting in the Vigor and Indulgence of the more boisterous Passions.

1798.

THIS is not pleasure! canst thou look within
And say that thou art blest? At close of day
Canst thou retire to thy fire-side alone,
Quiet at heart, nor heeding aught remote,
The power of wine, or power of company,
To fill thy human cravings? Hast thou left
Some treasured feelings, unexhausted loves,
Thoughts of the past, and thoughts of times to
come,

Mingled with sweetness all and deep content,
For Solitude's grave moment? Canst thou tell
Of the last sun-set how 'twas freak'd with clouds,
With clouds of shape sublime and strangest hues?
Canst thou report the storm of yester-night,
Its dancing flashes and its growling thunder?
And canst thou call to mind the colourless moon,"

What time the thin cloud half obscured the stars,
Muffling them, till the Spirit of the Night
Let slip its shadowy surge, and in the midst
One little gladdening twinkler shook its locks?

Oh, have these things within thee aught besides Human remembrance? Have they passion, love? Do they enrich thy dreams, and to thy thoughts Add images of purity and peace?

It is not so, cannot be so, to those
Who in the revels of the midnight cup,
Or in the wanton's lap, lavish the gifts,
GOD's supreme gifts, the energy, and fire,
That stir, and warm the faculty of thought!
If thou defile thyself, that joy minute,
Deep, silent, simple, dignified, yet mild,
Must never be thy portion! Thou hast lost
That most companionable and aweful sense,
That sense which tells us of a GOD in Heaven
And beauty on the earth: that sense which lends
A voice to silence, and to vacancy

A multitude of shapes and hues of life?
Go then, relinquish pleasure;-would'st thou know
The throb of happiness, relinquish wine,
And greedy lust, and greedier imagings
Of what may constitute the bliss of man!

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Oh! 'tis a silent and a quiet power,

An unobtrusive power, that winds itself
Into all moods of time and circumstance!
It smiles, and looks serene; in the clear eye
It speaks refreshing things, but never words
It makes its instruments, and flies away
As 'twere polluted, from the soul that dares
To waste GOD's dear endowments heedlessly,
And without special care that present joy
May bring an after-blessing.

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