They built him of stones gather'd up as they lay, They built him and christen'd him all in one day, An Urchin both vigorous and hale; And so without scruple they call'd him Ralph Jones. Now Ralph is renown'd for the length of his bones; The Magog of Legberthwaite dale. Just half a week after the Wind sallied forth, And, in anger or merriment, out of the North Coming on with a terrible pother, From the peak of the crag blew the Giant away. And what did these School-boys?--The very next day They went and they built up another. --Some little I've seen of blind boisterous works In Paris and London, 'mong Christians or Turks, Spirits busy to do and undo: At remembrance whereof my blood sometimes will flag. --Then, light-hearted Boys, to the top of the Crag! And I'll build up a Giant with you. Great How is a single and conspicuous hill, which rises towards the foot of Thirl-mere, on the western side of the beautiful dale of Legberthwaite, along the 'high road between Keswick' and Ambleside. _A POET'S EPITAPH_. Art thou a Statesman, in the van Of public business train'd and bred, --First learn to love one living man; _Then_ may'st thou think upon the dead. A Lawyer art thou?--draw not nigh; Go, carry to some other place The hardness of thy coward eye, The falshood of thy sallow face. Art thou a man of purple cheer? A rosy man, right plump to see? Approach; yet Doctor, not too near: This grave no cushion is for thee. Art thou a man of gallant pride, A Soldier, and no mail of chaff? Welcome!--but lay thy sword aside, And lean upon a Peasant's staff. Physician art thou? One, all eyes, Philosopher! a fingering slave, One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave? Wrapp'd closely in thy sensual fleece O turn aside, and take, I pray, That he below may rest in peace, Thy pin-point of a soul away! --A Moralist perchance appears; Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod: And He has neither eyes nor ears; Himself his world, and his own God; One to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can cling Nor form nor feeling great nor small, A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, An intellectual All in All! Shut close the door! press down the latch: Sleep in thy intellectual crust, Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch, Near this unprofitable dust. But who is He with modest looks, And clad in homely russet brown? He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own. He is retired as noontide dew, Or fountain in a noonday grove; And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love. The outward shews of sky and earth. Of hill and valley he has view'd; And impulses of deeper birth Have come to him in solitude. In common things that round us lie Some random truths he can impart The harvest of a quiet eye That broods and sleeps on his own heart.