Than mote we to bokes that we finde, Through which that olde thinges been in minde, And to the doctrine of these olde wyse, Yeven credence, in every skilful wyse, And trowen on these olde aproved stories Of holinesse, of regnes, of victories, Of love, of hate, of other sundry thinges, Of whiche I may not maken rehersinges. And if that olde bokes were a-weye, Y-loren were of remembraunce the keye. Wel oghte us than on olde bokes leve, Ther-as ther is non other assay by preve. And, as for me, though that my wit be lyte, On bokes for to rede I me delyte, And in myn herte have hem in reverence; And to hem yeve swich lust and swich credence, That ther is wel unethe game noon That from my bokes make me to goon, But hit be other up-on the haly-day, Or elles in the joly tyme of May; Whan that I here the smale foules singe, And that the floures ginne for to springe, Farwel my studie, as lasting that sesoun! G. CHAUCER. _The Legend of Good Women._ THE TABLES TURNED Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your Teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless-- Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the love which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:-- We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. W. WORDSWORTH. LEARNING Take me to some still abode, Underneath some woody hill; By some timber-skirted road, By some willow-shaded rill; Where along the rocky brook Flying echoes sweetly sound, And the hoarsely-croaking rook Builds upon the trees around. Take me to some lofty room Lighted from the western sky, Where no glare dispels the gloom Till the golden eve is nigh, Where the works of searching thought, Chosen books, may still impart What the wise of old have taught, What has tried the meek of heart.