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 this grave.

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;
Long hast Thou served a Man to reason true;
Whose life combines the best of high and low,
The toiling many and the resting few;

Health, meekness, ardour, quietness secure,
And industry of body and of mind;

And elegant enjoyments, that are pure

Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing
In concord with his River murmuring by ;
Or in some silent field, while timid Spring
Is yet uncheered by other minstrelsy.

Who shall inherit Thee when death has laid
Low in the darksome Cell thine own dear Lord?
That Man will have a trophy, humble Spade!
A trophy nobler than a Conqueror's sword.

If he be One that feels, with skill to part
False praise from true, or greater from the less,
Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart,
Thou monument of peaceful happiness!

With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day,
His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate!
And, when thou art past service, worn away,
Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate.

His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn;
An Heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be:-
High will he hang thee up, and will adorn
His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!

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,
grass in the green field.

And

My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.

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.