That man should thus encroach on fellow-man,
  Abridge him of his just and native rights,
  Eradicate him, tear him from his hold
  Upon th’ endearments of domestic life
  And social, nip his fruitfulness and use,
  And doom him for perhaps an heedless word
  To barrenness and solitude and tears,
  Moves indignation; makes the name of king
  (Of king whom such prerogative can please)
  As dreadful as the Manichean god,
  Adored through fear, strong only to destroy.

  [MEDITATION IN WINTER]

  The night was winter in his roughest mood,
  The morning sharp and clear.  But now at noon,
  Upon the southern side of the slant hills,
  And where the woods fence off the northern blast,
  The season smiles, resigning all its rage,
  And has the warmth of May.  The vault is blue
  Without a cloud, and white without a speck
  The dazzling splendour of the scene below. 
  Again the harmony comes o’er the vale,
  And through the trees I view the embattled tower
  Whence all the music.  I again perceive
  The soothing influence of the wafted strains,
  And settle in soft musings as I tread
  The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms,
  Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. 
  The roof, though moveable through all its length
  As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed,
  And intercepting in their silent fall
  The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.

  No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. 
  The redbreast warbles still, but is content
  With slender notes, and more than half suppressed: 
  Pleased with, his solitude, and flitting light
  From spray to spray, where’er he rests he shakes
  From many a twig the pendent drops of ice,
  That tinkle in the withered leaves below. 
  Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,
  Charms more than silence.  Meditation here
  May think down hours to moments.  Here the heart
  May give a useful lesson to the head,
  And learning wiser grow without his books. 
  Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,
  Have ofttimes no connection.  Knowledge dwells
  In heads replete with thoughts of other men,
  Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. 
  Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass,
  The mere materials with which wisdom builds,
  ’Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place,
  Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. 
  Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much;
  Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. 
  Books are not seldom talismans and spells,
  By which the magic art of shrewder wits
  Holds an unthinking multitude enthralled. 
  Some to the fascination of a name
  Surrender judgment hoodwinked.  Some the style
  Infatuates, and through labyrinths and wilds
  Of error leads them, by a tune entranced. 
  While sloth seduces more, too weak to