THERE is in fouls a fympathy with sounds,
And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleas'd With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave. Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies. How foft the mufic of thofe village bells Falling at intervals upon the ear In cadence fweet! now dying all away, Now pealing loud again and louder ftill, Clear and fonorous, as the gale comes on.. With easy force it opens all the cells
Where mem'ry flept. Wherever I have heard A kindred melody, the fcene recurs,
And with it all its pleasures and its pains. Such comprehensive views the spirit takes, That in a few short moments I retrace (As in a map the voyager his course)
The windings of my way through many years. Short as in retrospect the journey seems, It seem'd not always fhort: the rugged path, And profpect oft fo dreary and forlorn, Moy'd many a figh at its difheart'ning length. Yet feeling prefent evils, while the past Faintly impress the mind, or not at all. How readily we with time spent revok'd, That we might try the ground again, where once (Through inexperience as we now perceive) We mifs'd that happiness we might have found! Some friend is gone, perhaps his fon's best friend, A father, whofe authority, in fhow
When most severe, and muft'ring all its force, Was but the graver countenance of love; Whofe favour, like the clouds of spring, might low'r,
And utter now and then an awful voice, But had a bleffing in its darkest frown, Threat'ning at once and nourishing the plant. We lov'd, but not enough, the gentle hand That rear'd us. At a thoughtless age, allur'd By ev'ry gilded folly, we renounc'd
His fhelt'ring fide, and wilfully forewent
That converse which we now in vain regret. How gladly would the man recall to life · The boy's neglected fire! a mother too, That fofter friend, perhaps more gladly ftill,
Might he demand them at the gates of death.
Sorrow has, fince they went, fubdu'd and tam'd
The playful humour; he could now endure,
(Himself grown fober in the vale of tears) And feel a parent's prefence no restraint. But not to understand a treasure's worth 'Till time has stol'n away the flighted good,, Is cause of half the poverty we feel,
And makes the world the wilderness it is.. The few that pray at all pray oft amifs,
And, feeking grace t'improve the prize they hold,. Would urge a wifer fuit than asking more.
The night was winter in his roughest mood, The morning fharp and clear... But now at noon Upon the fouthern fide of the flant hills,
And where the woods fence off the northern blast, The seafon fmiles, refigning all its rage,
And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue Without a cloud, and white without a speck The dazzling fplendour of the scene below..
Again the harmony comes o'er the vale, And through the trees I view th' embattled tow'r Whence all the mufic. I again perceive
The foothing influence of the wafted ftrains, And fettle in foft mufings as I tread
The walk ftill verdant, under oaks and elms, Whofe outspread branches over-arch the glade. The roof, though moveable through all its length As the wind fways it, has yet well fuffic'd, And intercepting in their filent fall
The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me. No noife is here, or none that hinders thought. The red-breaft warbles ftill, but is content With flender notes and more than half suppress'd Pleas'd with his folitude, and flitting light From fpray to fpray, where'er he refts he fhakes From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. Stillness, accompanied with founds fo foft, Charms more than filence. Meditation here May think down hours to moments. Here the heart
May give an useful leffon to the head, And learning, wifer grow without his books. Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have oft-times no connexion. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men, Wifdom in minds attentive to their own. Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mafs,
The mere materials with which wifdom builds, 'Till fimooth'd and fquar'd and fitted to its place,
Does but incumber whom it seems t' enrich. Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd fo much, Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. Books are not seldom talismans and fpells, By which the magic art of fhrewder wits Holds an unthinking multitude enthrall'd. Some, to the fascination of a name
Surrender judgment, hood-wink'd. Some, the ftyle
Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds Of error leads them, by a tune entranc'd. While floth feduces more, too weak to bear The infupportable fatigue of thought, And swallowing, therefore, without pause or choice, The total grift unfifted, hufks and all. But trees, and rivulets whofe rapid course Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer, And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs, And lanes, in which the primrose ere her time Peeps through the mofs that clothes the hawthorn
Deceive no ftudent. Wisdom there, and truth, Not fhy, as in the world, and to be won By flow folicitation, seize at once
The roving thought, and fix it on themselves.
What prodigies can pow'r divine perform More grand than it produces year by year,
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