Nor can I not believe but that hereby Great gains are mine: for thus I live remote From evil-speaking; rancour, never sought, Comes to me not; malignant truth, or lie. Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous thought: And thus from day to day my little Boat Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably. 50 Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares, The Poets, who on earth have made us Heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays! Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs, Then gladly would I end my mortal days. * * * * * Yes! full surely 'twas the Echo, Solitary, clear, profound, Answering to Thee, shouting Cuckoo! Giving to thee Sound for Sound. Whence the Voice? from air or earth? This the Cuckoo cannot tell; But a startling sound had birth, As the Bird must know full well; Like the voice through earth and sky By the restless Cuckoo sent; 10 Like her ordinary cry, Like--but oh how different! Hears not also mortal Life? Hear not we, unthinking Creatures! Slaves of Folly, Love, or Strife, Voices of two different Natures? Have not We too? Yes we have Answers, and we know not whence; Echoes from beyond the grave, Recogniz'd intelligence? 20 Such within ourselves we hear Oft-times, ours though sent from far; Listen, ponder, hold them dear; For of God, of God they are! _TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND_, (AN AGRICULTURIST.) Composed while we were labouring together in his Pleasure-Ground. Spade! with which Wilkinson hath till'd his Lands, And shap'd these pleasant walks by Emont's side, Thou art a tool of honour in my hands; I press thee through the yielding soil with pride. Rare Master has it been thy lot to know; Long hast Thou serv'd a Man to reason true; Whose life combines the best of high and low, The toiling many and the resting few; Health, quiet, meekness, ardour, hope secure, And industry of body and of mind; 10 And elegant enjoyments, that are pure As Nature is; too pure to be refined. Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing In concord with his River murmuring by; Or in some silent field, while timid Spring Is yet uncheer'd by other minstrelsy. Who shall inherit Thee when Death hath laid Low in the darksome Cell thine own dear Lord? That Man will have a trophy, humble, Spade! More noble than the noblest Warrior's sword. 20 If he be One that feels, with skill to part False praise from true, or greater from the less, Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart, Thou monument of peaceful happiness!