bear
  The insupportable fatigue of thought,
  And swallowing therefore, without pause or choice,
  The total grist unsifted, husks and all. 
  But trees, and rivulets whose rapid course
  Defies the check of winter, haunts of deer,
  And sheepwalks populous with bleating lambs,
  And lanes in which the primrose ere her time
  Peeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root,
  Deceive no student.  Wisdom there, and Truth,
  Not shy as in the world, and to be won
  By slow solicitation, seize at once
  The roving thought, and fix it on themselves.

  [KINDNESS TO ANIMALS]

  I would not enter on my list of friends,
  Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
  Yet wanting sensibility, the man
  Who needlessly sets foot upon a worm. 
  An inadvertent, step may crush the snail
  That crawls at evening in the public path;
  But he that has humanity, forewarned,
  Will tread aside and let the reptile live. 
  The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight,
  And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes,
  A visitor unwelcome, into scenes
  Sacred to neatness and repose—­th’ alcove,
  The chamber, or refectory,—­may die: 
  A necessary act incurs no blame. 
  Not so when, held within their proper bounds
  And guiltless of offence, they range the air,
  Or take their pastime in the spacious field: 
  There they are privileged; and he that hunts
  Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong,
  Disturbs th’ economy of Nature’s realm,
  Who, when she formed, designed them an abode.

  ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER’S PICTURE

  O that those lips had language!  Life has passed
  With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
  Those lips are thine—­thy own sweet smile I see,
  The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
  Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
  ‘Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!’
  The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
  (Blest be the art that can immortalize,
  The art that baffles Time’s tyrannic claim
  To quench it) here shines on me still the same.

  Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
  O welcome guest, though unexpected here! 
  Who bidd’st me honour with an artless song,
  Affectionate, a mother lost so long,
  I will obey, not willingly alone,
  But gladly, as the precept were her own: 
  And, while that face renews my filial grief,
  Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
  Shall steep me in Elysian revery,
  A momentary dream that thou art she.

  My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
  Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? 
  Hovered thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son,
  Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun? 
  Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
  Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—­