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Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heart For better lore would seldom yearn Could I but teach the hundredth part Of what from thee I learn.
Written at a small distance from my House, and sent by my little boy to the person to whom they are addressed.
It is the first mild day of March:
Each minute sweeter than before,
The red-breast sings from the tall larch
There is a blessing in the air,
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Edward will come with you, and pray,
And bring no book, for this one day
No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living Calendar :
We from to-day, my friend, will date
The opening of the year.
Love, now an universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth,
--It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more
Than fifty years of reason;
Our minds shall drink at every pore
Some silent laws our hearts may make, Which they shall long obey ;
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.
And from the blessed power that rolls
About, below, above;
We'll frame the measure of our souls,
They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my sister! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress, And bring no book; for this one day
We'll give to idleness.
The FEMALE VAGRANT.
By Derwent's side my Father's cottage stood,
One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood
Or watch'd his lazy boat still less'ning more and more.