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In t'other, to value the stillness, the breeze,
And love to see farms, and to get among trees.

Each his liking, of course, --so that this be the


For my part, who went in the city to school,
And whenever I got in a field, felt my soul in it
-Spring, so that like a young horse I could roll in it,
-My inclinations are much what they were,
And cannot dispense, in the first place, with air;
But then I would have the most rural of nooks
Just near enough town to make use of it's books,
And to walk there, whenever I chose to make calls,
To look at the ladies, and lounge at the stalls.

To tell you the truth, I could spend very well Whole mornings in this way 'twixt here and Pall


And make my gloves' fingers as black as my hat, In pulling the books up from this stall and that :Then turning home gently through field and o'er

style, Partly reading a purchase, or rhyming the while, Take my dinner (to make a long evening) at two,

a , With a few droppers-in like my Cousin and you, Who can season the talk with the right-flavour'd

attic, Too witty, for tattling,—too wise, for dogmatic; Then take down an author, whom one of us men

tions, And doat, for a while, on his jokes or inventions ; Then have Mozart touched, on our bottle's com

pletion, Or one of your fav’rite trim ballads Venetian : Then


for a walk before tea down a valley, And so to come back through a leafy-wall'd alley,

In which the sun peeping, as into a chamber,
Looks gold on the leaves, turning some to sheer

amber :
Then tea made by one, who (although my wife she

If Jove were to drink it, would soon be his Hebe;
Then silence a little,--a creeping twilight,
Then an egg for your supper, with lettuces white,
And a moon and friend's arm to go home with at



Now this I call passing a few devout hours
Becoming a world that has friendships and flow-


That has lips also, made for still more than to chat


And if it has rain, has a rainbow for that too.

« Lord bless us !” exclaims some old hunks in a

shop, “What useless young dogs !”-and falls combing a

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crop How idle !” another cries—" really a sin!" And starting up, takes his first customer in. “At least,” cries another, “ it's nothing but plea

sure;” Then longs for the Monday, quite sick of his leisure. “What toys!" cries the sage haggard statesman,

" what stuff!” Then fillips his ribband, to shake off the snuff. “How profane!” cries the preacher, proclaiming

his message; Then calls God's creation a vile dirty passage. “Lips too!” cries a vixen,--and fidgets, and stirs, And concludes (which is true) that I did'nt mean Yet most of these sages, dear Will, would agree, To get what they could out of you and of me, To stir up their jog-trotting dullness at times With your cannonade reas'ning, or dance of my


rhymes. They only would have us dig on like themselves, Yet be all observation to furnish their shelves; Would only expect us (inordinate crew!) To be just what they are, and delight them all too! As well might they ask the explorers of oceans To make their discoveries, as doctors do lotions; Or shut up some bees in the till with their money, And look, on the Sabbath, to breakfast on honey.

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The secret, in fact, why most people condemn,
Is not that men differ, but differ with them.
And yet if the world were put under their keeping,
Our only resource from a pond would be sleeping.

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