Physician art thou? One, all eyes,
Philosopher! a fingering slave,
One that would peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave?

Wrapp'd closely in thy sensual fleece
O turn aside, and take, I pray,
That he below may rest in peace,
Thy pin-point of a soul away!

A Moralist' perchance appears;

Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod:
And He has neither eyes nor ears!'
Himself his world, and his own God;

One to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can cling
Nor form nor feeling great nor small,
A reasoning, self-sufficing thing,

An intellectual All in All!

Shut close the door! press down the latch:

Sleep in thy intellectual crust,

Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch,.
Near this unprofitable dust.

But who is He with modest looks,
And clad in homely russet brown?
He murmurs near the running brooks
A music sweeter than their own.

Ile is retired as noontide dew,
Or fountain in a noon-day grove;
And you must love him, ere to you
He will seem worthy of your love.

The outward shews of sky and earth,
Of hill and valley he has view'd;
And impulses of deeper birth
Have come to him in solitude.

In common things that round us lie
Some random truths he can impart
The harvest of a quiet eye

That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

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.—

A CHARACTER

In the antithetical Manner.

I marvel how Nature could ever find space For the weight and the levity seen in his face: There's thought and no thought, and there's paleness and bloom,

And bustle and sluggishness, pleasure and gloom.

There's weakness, and strength, both redun- ̧ dant and vain;

Such strength, as if ever affliction and pain

Could pierce through a temper that's soft to disease,

Would be rational peace-a Philosopher's ease..

There's indifference, alike when he fails and succeeds,

And attention full ten times as much as there needs,

Pride where there's no envy, there's so much

of joy,

And mildness, and spirit both forward and

coy.

There's freedom, and sometimes a diffident

stare

Of shame scarcely seeming to know that she's there.

There's virtue, the title it surely may claim, Yet wants, Heaven knows what, to be worthy the name.

What a picture! 'tis drawn without Nature or Art,

-Yet the Man would at once run away with your heart,

And I for five centuries right gladly would be Such an odd, such a kind happy creature as he.

A FRAGMENT.

BETWEEN two sister moorland rills
There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flow'rets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.

And in this smooth and open dell
There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a cottage hut;
And in this dell
you see

A thing no storm can e'er destroy,
The shadow of a Danish Boy.

In clouds above, the lark is heard,
He sings his blithest and his best;.
But in this lonesome nook the bird
Did never build his nest.

2

No beast, no bird hath here his home;
The bees borne on the breezy air
Pass high above those fragrant bells
To other flowers, to other dells,
Nor ever linger there.

The Danish Boy walks here alone.
The lovely dell is all his own.