And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things; -We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up these barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. VII. ADDRESS TO THE SONS OF BURNS After visiting their Father's Grave. (August 14th, 1803.) E now are panting up life's hill! 'Tis twilight time of good and ill, And more than common strength and skill Must ye display If ye would give the better will Its lawful sway. Strong-bodied if ye be to bear Intemperance with less harm, beware! But if your Father's wit ye share, Then, then indeed, Ye Sons of Burns! for watchful care There will be need. For honest men delight will take To shew you favor for his sake, Will flatter you; and Fool and Rake Your steps pursue : And of your Father's name will make A snare for you. Let no mean hope your souls enslave; Be independent, generous, brave! Your Father such example gave, And such revere ! But be admonish'd by his Grave,— VIII. TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND, (AN AGRICULTURIST.) Composed while we were labouring together in his PleasureGround. 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; Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure, Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing 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 With Thee he will not dread a toilsome da His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn; |