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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.



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

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.


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


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

- so in truth do I.

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


No spot so distant, in this spacious vale,

But I had won it, whether hill or plain,

Forest or cultured field, - intent to gain
A quaintance with each flower that doth inhale
The breath of morn, or lurk in sheltered dale,

Rock-side, or margin of the winding brook. Eager I sought where earliest blossoms grew,

Of liver-leaf and columbine, each nook, Where sweetest scented, in the morning dew,

The Azalea, May Flower, Lily of the Vale,

The Eglantine, and Pancy, on the gale
Their bloom and fragrance, all unheeded, threw.

Thus lone, yet happy, passed each busy hour,
Gay as the bird, expanding like the flower.

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They had been playmates in their infancy;
And she in all his thoughts had borne a part,
And all his joys.


Nurtured in solitude, this feeling grew

A sense, a passion, a reflective joy,

Ingrained, or native, e'en while yet a boy;
And still, in age, survives, unchanged as true.

Half murmuring to myself, or wandering oft,
In social silence pleased, afar I strayed,
Sister ! with thee, in rapture through the glade,

Too happy for discourse ! Pervading soft,
Resistless though unseen, the gentle force
Of genial nature guided still our course :

Bird, beast, field, forest, summer shower, or wind, Hill, valley, streamlet, to the softened breast Could each, in turn, enduring thoughts suggest, And mould, with plastic power, the yielding mind.

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Sweet interchange
Of hill, and valley, river, woods, and plains.


What wonder if the love of nature then

Was strong within me; e'en from childhood's dawn ; Ere yet I mingled with the herd of men,

Or wandered, from my native vale withdrawn. The genius of this quiet spot serene

Wrought on my heart, and sways its movements still :

The gentle curvature of yonder hill, Clothed to its cultured top with living green,

The river's steady flow, the clattering mill,
Yon blue-topped mountain, far and faintly seen,
With wooded hills, and verdant vales between,

The farm-house's busy group, yon winding rill,
Each on my infant mind left lasting trace,
Heart bound, and wedded to my native place.



And then the whining school boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping, like snail,
Unwillingly to school ! SHAKSPEARE.

The loss of home, - how poignant was the grief,

When, from the parent roof constrained to part,

Its bitter pang transfixed my youthful heart ! The world's cold kindness gave not then relief,

But sickened rather. Oft the tear would start,
Unbidden, while the dear domestic scene
Rose on my view, with bitter thoughts between :

But then, with scornful laugh, came one, who, young Yet early hardened, could such pain deride,

And taunt my weakness with sarcastic tongue,
That shamed, at once, and roused me : manly pride
And just resentment dashed the tear aside;

Yet could not long the rising grief o'rrule,
Home sick, heart riven, by that first week at school.


Shades of the prison house begin to close

Upon the growing boy. WORDSWORTH.

Possessions that, while held, are, in our eyes,
Deemed little worth, to tenfold value rise,

When held no more. 'Tis thus, in nightly dream,
My home sick fancy revels mid the joys
Of untasked youth, and sports of happy boys.

Night still restores me to my native stream, An infant architect, where oft my

hand The mud-dam built, or water wheel had planned ;

Or, panting from the summer's sultry beam,
Framed leafy arbours in the secret dell,

Or chambers hollowed in the yielding sand;
Of these more proud than, since, in larger scheme

Of later life: can vaunting manhood tell
Why better worth, since ne'er enjoyed so well!

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