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II.

The oak, whose branches shelter now the herd,
Was once an acorn; and its gnarled trunk,
That shook, a sapling, in the summer breeze,
Defies, full grown, the tempest's angry sweep.

Who has not felt how growing habits cast

Their slight but binding chains round opening life! Each link a pigmy thread, yet holding fast

The sleeping Gulliver! What toil, what strife, What effort now, to burst from bonds away, That once seemed slender as the filmy slime Arachne weaves - till hardening fast with time, The chain grows adamant, and binds, today, The heart that scorned, so late, the passion's sway, As powerless then. Youth's ductile gold, enchased By virtue's guiding hand, is shaped with ease

To use and beauty; but, intent to please,

If folly's legend round the gold be traced,

It hardens into vice, by crime debased.

IMAGINATION.

I.

There is a pleasure in it:

Yea, when the cold blood shoots through every vein,
There is a joy in fear.

BAILLIE.

Early impressions, on the youthful mind

Take firmest hold, by fear on fancy bred : My childhood heard, with mingled joy and dread, Of ghost and goblin dire,—the power combined

Of evil men with evil spirits joined ;

Of blood of innocence, in secret shed,
By ruffian stealing to the peaceful bed;
The poisoned cup; the death blow dealt behind;
Each thrilling tale of strange mysterious power;
Sights dimly seen, at midnight's witching hour,
And sounds unearthly, heard in caverns lone;
Till fond credulity received with awe,

As truths undoubted, all that fancy saw,
Or fear imagined, of the world unknown.

II.

The paths of error, winding though they seem,
Conduct, not seldom, -to the house of truth;

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And oft can fiction, in wild fancy's sport,

Flash light, where reason pours a feebler ray.

Nor vain such tales of wonder,

since they bring,

Early and strongly, to the opening mind,

Views of futurity, and help unbind

Those clogs of earthly sense, that heavy cling

To soaring thought. The mind that scorns, in youth, The world of spirits, proud, in age, will fling

All reverence by, unmindful of the truth,

Deepest and best assured, that fancy's wing
Must imp the flight of reason, ere on high
She spread her heaven-ward pinion - else to dwell,
Cold, heartless, sneering, in the skeptic's cell.
Faith, feeling, fancy, each must aid supply
To reasons powers, which else, in vain would try
Man's doubts to solve, his boding fears to quell.

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That watched, ere yet I breathed this vital air, And still, unwearied, knows not to forget Its wonted kindness. Memory values yet,

As first and choicest, mid her treasures fair, That fond maternal wisdom, rich as rare, Which all my wants with kind prevention met. Fountain of life! from thee my young lips drew Those streams of kindly nurture, which imbue Man's rugged nature, savage else and vile,

With female softness; tempering heart and brain With mild yet lofty virtues, taught in vain By ought less holy than a mother's smile.

II.

"He knew no mother's care," Oh pardon then
His folly, or his guilt,-if he should prove

Vicious alike as wretched.

Oft, when my sports (as youth is thoughtless still)

Grew harsh or cruel, mildly hast thou said,

Seek not, my son! thy cup of joy to fill

From others' suffering: evil on the head

Of evil doers will her vials shed

Of ten fold vengeance on the vicious will;
Then be not cruel; nor, with wanton tread,
Crush needlessly the worm beneath thy feet:
Yet be not thence effeminate; nor dread,
When duty calls, rejoicingly to meet

Toil, suffering, danger, in each generous cause, Thy God's, thy friends, thy country's and her laws; So shalt thou find e'en painful duty sweet,

Tempered by love and crowned with just applause.

THE LOVE OF NATURE.

I.

What call'st thou solitude? Is not the earth
With various living creatures, and the air

Replenished, and all these at thy command,
To come and play before thee?

I can remember, ere my years had told

MILTON.

Their second lustre, how I loved to be Alone among the woods; to wander free Beside the neighbouring streamlet, and behold The small fish darting, where the waters rolled Above the smooth worn stones; to stand and see The lively squirrel, on the broad beach tree, Rattling the nuts down, chittering to his mate, Or bounding, bird-like, onward; then to chase The gaudy butterfly; or pause and trace The ant-hill's busy tribe, its ordered state, And well ranked industry; an idler I, Yet busy as the blackbird chattering by, And heedless of returning soon or late.

II.

How lonesome! how wild! yet the wildness is rife
With the stir of enjoyment, the spirit of life.

WILSON.

Chide not my wanderings, mother! nor believe
That danger waits me here; the dreaded snake
Flies from me harmless, harbouring in the brake
The stream is shallow, where the fish receive
The crumbs I throw them; 'tis a merry sight
To see them leap thus sudden into light,
Then sink as soon: the woodpecker hard by
Taps on the tree, unheeding; redbreast takes
The food I give him, nor my side forsakes,
So well he knows me! but in vain I try
To win upon the partridge; wild and shy
I hear her drumming on the fallen tree,
Remote, unsocial: well, the bird is free,
And loves the covert

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so in truth do I.

III.

Flowers worthy Paradise, which not nice Art,
In beds and curious knots, but Nature boon
Pours forth profuse.

MILTON.

No spot so distant, in this spacious vale,
But I had won it, whether hill or plain,
Forest or cultured field, intent to gain
Aquaintance with each flower that doth inhale
The breath of morn, or lurk in sheltered dale,

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