I would not kill one bird in wanton sport, I would not mingle jocund mirth with death, For all the smoking board, the savoury feast Can yield most exquisite to pamper'd sense!
Since nature wills that every living thing Should gratify the purposes of man, And wait his proud disposal, let him prove, E'en in this delegated function, prove, A deep humility, which fears to tread Where the all-perfect, and unquestion❜d God Hath wrought strange imperfection-perhaps to bend,
And by the influence of an holy sadness, To tame the o'erweening soul! not give a cause For riotous Dominion, and for Power
Sweeping with mad career from off this world Its fair inhabitants!
A man who liv'd in solitude: a dell A mossy dell, green, woody, hung around With various forest growth, was his abode. And in the forest many a gleaming plot Of tenderest grass, its island circlet spread!
This man did rear a hut, and lived and died In that lone dell! He had no friend on earth, Nor wanted one-For much he lov'd his God, And much those works which e'en the lonely man May taste abundantly! And he did think So oft on life's great Author, that at last He worshipp'd him in all things, and believ'd His poorest creatures holy, and could see "Religious meanings in the forms of nature," Dreaming he saw, e'en in the passing bird, The crawling worm, or serpent on the grass, An emanation of his Maker-so
That a new presence stung him into thought And made him kneel and weep!
Liv'd on the scanty fruits this little dell Afforded. Never did a dying writhe, Or dying gasp, war with his sense of good. At last he died, and such had been his life, That when he yielded up his animal frame, It only seem'd as if he went to sleep More quietly than ever!
Who considered the Perfection of Human Nature as consisting in the Vigor and Indulgence of the more boisterous Passions.
THIS is not pleasure! canst thou look within And say that thou art blest? At close of day Canst thou retire to thy fire-side alone, Quiet at heart, nor heeding aught remote, The power of wine, or power of company, To fill thy human cravings? Hast thou left Some treasured feelings, unexhausted loves, Thoughts of the past, and thoughts of times to come,
Mingled with sweetness all and deep content, For Solitude's grave moment? Canst thou tell Of the last sun-set how 'twas freak'd with clouds, With clouds of shape sublime and strangest hues? Canst thou report the storm of yester-night, Its dancing flashes and its growling thunder? And canst thou call to mind the colourless moon,"
What time the thin cloud half obscured the stars, Muffling them, till the Spirit of the Night Let slip its shadowy surge, and in the midst One little gladdening twinkler shook its locks?
Oh, have these things within thee aught besides Human remembrance? Have they passion, love? Do they enrich thy dreams, and to thy thoughts Add images of purity and peace?
It is not so, cannot be so, to those Who in the revels of the midnight cup, Or in the wanton's lap, lavish the gifts, GOD's supreme gifts, the energy, and fire, That stir, and warm the faculty of thought! If thou defile thyself, that joy minute, Deep, silent, simple, dignified, yet mild, Must never be thy portion! Thou hast lost That most companionable and aweful sense, That sense which tells us of a GOD in Heaven And beauty on the earth: that sense which lends A voice to silence, and to vacancy
A multitude of shapes and hues of life? Go then, relinquish pleasure;-would'st thou know The throb of happiness, relinquish wine, And greedy lust, and greedier imagings Of what may constitute the bliss of man!
Oh! 'tis a silent and a quiet power,
An unobtrusive power, that winds itself Into all moods of time and circumstance! It smiles, and looks serene; in the clear eye It speaks refreshing things, but never words It makes its instruments, and flies away As 'twere polluted, from the soul that dares To waste GOD's dear endowments heedlessly, And without special care that present joy May bring an after-blessing.
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