Such as take lodgings in a head
That's to be let unfurnished.
He could raise scruples dark and nice,
And after solve 'em in a trice;
As if Divinity had catch'd
The itch, on purpose to be scratch'd;
Or, like a mountebank, did wound
And stab herself with doubts profound,
Only to show with how small pain
The sores of faith are cur'd again;
Although by woful proof we find
They always leave a scar behind.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village-master taught his little school: A man severe he was, and stern to view, 1 knew him well, and every truant knew: Well had the boding tremblers learnt to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laugh'd, with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper circling round Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd: Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was his fault. The village all declar'd how much he knew; 'Twas certain he could write and cipher too : Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And ev❜n the story ran that he could guage; In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill, For, ev'n though vanquish'd, he could argue still :
While words of learned length and thund'ring sound
Amaz'd the gazing rustics rang'd around;
And still they gaz'd, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. GOLDSMITH.
SCIENCE. (Man's best)
Man's science is the culture of his heart; And not to lose his plummet in the depths Of nature, or the more profound of God:"Not deeply to discern, not much to know, **Mankind was born to wonder and adore."
SCIENCE. (Often misleads)
Go, wond'rous creature! mount where science guides,
Go, measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides;
Instruct the planets in what orbs to run,
Correct old time, and regulate the sun;
Go, soar with Plato to th' empyreal sphere,
To the first good, first perfect, and first fair;
Or tread the mazy round his followers trod,
And quitting sense call imitating God;
As Eastern priests in giddy circles run,
And turn their heads to imitate the sun.
Go, teach eternal wisdom how to rule;
Then drop into thyself, and be a fool!
Trace science, then, with modesty the guide; First strip off all her equipage of pride;
Deduct but what is vanity or dress,
Or learning's luxury, or idleness;
Or tricks to show the stretch of human brain,
Mere curious pleasure, or ingenious pain;
Expunge the whole, or lop th' excrescent parts
Of all our vices have created arts;
Then see how little the remaining sum,
Which serv'd the past, and must the time to come!
SCENERY. (Mountain Scenery)
He turned aside, by natural impulses
Moved, to behold Cadwallon's lonely hut.
That lonely dwelling stood among the hills,
By a grey mountain-stream; just elevate
Above the winter torrents did it stand,
Upon a craggy bank; an orchard slope
Arose behind, and joyous was the scene,
In early summer, when those antic trees
Shone with their blushing blossoms, and the flax
Twinkled beneath the breeze its liveliest
green.
But, save the flax-field and that orchard slope,
All else was desolate, and now all wore
One sober hue; the narrow vale which wound
Among the hills, was grey with rocks, that peered
Above its shallow soil; the mountain side
Was with loose stones bestrewn, which oftentimes
Sliding beneath the foot of straggling goat,
Clattered adown the steep; or huger crags,
Which, when the coming frost should loosen them,
Would thunder down. All things assorted well
With that grey mountain hue; the low stone lines,
Which scarcely seemed to be the work of man,
The dwelling, rudely reared with stones unhewn,
The stubble flax, the crooked apple-trees,
Grey with their fleecy moss and mistletoe,
The white barked birch, now leafless, and the ash,
Whose knotted roots were like the rifted rock,
Where they had forced their way. Adown the vale
Broken by stones, and o'er a stoney bed,
Rolled the loud mountain-stream.
SCENES. (Of our Native Land)
Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd,
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathes, go, mark him well;
For him no minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth, as wish can claim:
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentr'd all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.
O Caledonia! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sire! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band,
That knits me to thy rugged strand !
Still, as I view each well-known scene,
Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems as, to me, of all bereft,
Sole friends thy woods and streams were left;
And thus I love them better still,
Even in extremity of ill.
By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way:
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chill my withered cheek;
Still lay my head by Tiviot stone,
Though there, forgotten and alone,
The bard may draw his parting groan.
Not scorned like me!
Sweet scenes of youth, to faithful memory dear,
Still fondly cherish'd with the sacred tear,
When, in the softened light of summer skies,
Full on my soul life's first illusions rise!
Sweet scenes of youthful bliss, unknown to pain!
I come, to trace your soothing haunts again,
To mark each grace that pleas'd my stripling prime,
By absence hallow'd, and endear'd by time;
To lose amid your winding dells the past :-
Ah! must I think this ling'ring look the last?
Ye lovely vales, that met my earliest view!
How oft ye smil'd, when Nature's charms were
new!
Green was her vesture, glowing, fresh and warm,
And every op'ning grace had power to charm ;
While, as each scene in living lustre rose,
Each young emotion wak'd from soft repose.
As every prospect opens on my view,
I seem to live departed years anew;
When in these wilds a jocund, sportive child,
Each flower self-sown my heedless hours beguil'd;
The wabret leaf, that by the pathway grew,
The wild-brier rose, of pale and blushful hue,
The thistle's rolling wheel, of silken down,
The blue-bell, or the daisey's pearly crown,
The gaudy butterfly, in wanton round,
That, like a living pea-flower, skimm'd the ground.
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