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ARGUMENT OF THE SIXTH BOOK.

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Bells at a diftance.-Their effect.-A fine noon in winter.-A Sheltered walk.-Meditation better than books.Our familiarity with the course of nature makes it appear lefs wonderful than it is. The transformation that Spring effects in a shrubbery defcribed.-A miftake concerning the course of nature. corrected.-God maintains it by an unremitted act.— The amusements fashionable at this hour of the day. reproved.--- Animals happy, a delightful fight.---Origin of cruelty to animals.---That it is a great crime. proved from fcripture.---That proof illuftrated by a tale.--A line drawn between the lawful and the unlawful deftruction of them.Their good and useful properties infifted on.---Apology for the encomiums beftowed by the author on animals.---Inftances of man's extravagant praise of man.---The groans of the creation fhall have an end.---A view token of the refloration of all things.--- An Invocation and an... Invitation of him who shall bring it to pass.---The retired man vindicated from the charge of ufeleffness.. ---Conclufion.

THE

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THERE

HERE is in fouls a fympathy with founds, And as the mind is pitch'd, the ear is pleas'd With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave. Some chord in unifon with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies. How foft the mufic of those village bells, Falling, at intervals, upon the ear, In cadence fweet! now dying all away, Now pealing loud again, and louder fill, Clear and fonorous, as the galé comes on. With eafy force it opens all the cells Where mem'ry flept. Wherever I have heard A kindred melody, the fcene recurs,

And

And with it all its pleafures and it's pains.
Such comprehenfive views the fpirit takes,
That in a few fhort moments I retrace,
(As in a map the voyager his course)
The windings of my way through many years.
Short, as in retrofpect, the journey feems,
It feem'd not always fhort; the rugged path,
And profpect, oft fo dreary and forlorn,
Mov'd many a figh at its difheart'ning length.
Yet feeling prefent evils, while the past,
Faintly imprefs the mind, or not at all,
How readily we wish time spent revok'd,
That we might try the ground again, where once
(Through inexperience, as we now perceive)
We mifs'd that happiness we might have found.
Some friend is gone, perhaps his fon's best friend,
A father, whofe authority, in fhow,

When most severe, and muft'ring all its force,
Was but the graver countenance of love.

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Whofe favour, like the clouds of fpring, might low'r,
And utter now and then an awful voice,
But had a bleffing in its darkeft frown,
Threat'ning at once, and nourishing the plant.
We lov'd, but not enough, the gentle hand
That rear'd us. At a thoughtlefs age allur'd
By ev'ry gilded folly, we renounc'd
His fhelt'ring fide, and wilfully forewent
That converfe which we now in vain regret.
How gladly would the man recall to life
The boy's neglected fire! a mother too,

That

That fofter friend, perhaps more gladly ftill,
Might he demand them at the gates of death.
Sorrow has, fince they went, fubdu'd and tam'd
The playful humour, he could now endure,
(Himself grown fober in the vale of tears)
And feel a parent's prefence no restraint.
But not to understand a treasure's worth,
'Till time has ftol'n away the flighted good,
Is caufe of half the poverty we feel,
And makes the world the wilderness it is.
The few that pray at all, pray oft amifs,
And feeking grace t' improve the prize they hold,
Would urge a wifer fuit, than afking more,

The night was winter, in his roughest mood,
The morning fharp and clear.
Upon the fouthern fide of the

But now at noon, flant hills,

And where the woods fence off the northern blaft,
The feafon fmiles, refiguing all its rage,

And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue,
Without a cloud, and white, without a fpeck,
The dazzling fplendour of the scene below.
Again, the harmony comes o'er the vale,

And through the trees I view th' embattl'd tow'r,
Whence all the mufic. I again perceive
The foothing influence of the wafted strains,
And fettle, in foft mufings, as I tread
The walk, ftill verdant under oaks and elms,
Whofe outspread branches overarch the glade.
The roof, though moveable, through all its length,
X

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As the wind fways it, has yet well fuffic'd,
And intercepting in their filent fall

The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.
No noife is here, or none that hinders thought.
The red breaft warbles ftill, but is content
With flender notes, and more than half suppress'd.
Pleas'd with his folitude, and flitting light,
From fpray to fpray, where'er he rits, he fhakes,
From many a twig, the pendant drops of ice,
That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below.
Stillness, accompany'd with founds fo soft,
Charms more than filence. Meditation here,
May think down hours to moments. Here the heart,
May give an useful leffon to the head,

And learning, wifer grow without his books.
Knowledge and wifdom, far from being one,
Have oft-times no connexion. Knowledge dwells
In heads replete with thoughts of other men,
Wifdom, in minds attentive to their own.
Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass,

The mere materials with which wisdom builds,
'Till fmooth'd, and fquar'd, and fitted to its place,
Does but incumber whom it feems t' enrich.
Knowledge is proud that he has learn'd fo much,
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.
Books are not feldom talifmans and spells,
By which the magic art of fhrewder wits
Holds an unthinking multitude enthrall'd.
Some to the fascination of a name

Surrender judgment hood-wink'd. Some the ftile

Infatu

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