Not like a temple rich with pomp and gold,
    But a mere mountain chapel that protects
    Its simple worshippers from sun and shower! 
    Of these, said I, shall be my song; of these,
    If future years mature me for the task,
    Will I record the praises, making verse
    Deal boldly with substantial things—­in truth
    And sanctity of passion speak of these,
    That justice may be done, obeisance paid
    Where it is due.  Thus haply shall I teach
    Inspire, through unadulterated ears
    Pour rapture, tenderness, and hope; my theme
    No other than the very heart of man,
    As found among the best of those who live,
    Not unexalted by religious faith,
    Nor uninformed by books, good books, though few
    In Nature’s presence:  thence may I select
    Sorrow that is not sorrow, but delight,
    And miserable love that is not pain
    To hear of, for the glory that redounds
    Therefrom to human kind, and what we are. 
    Be mine to follow with no timid step
    Where knowledge leads me; it shall be my pride
    That I have dared to tread this holy ground,
    Speaking no dream, but things oracular,
    Matter not lightly to be heard by those
    Who to the letter of the outward promise
    Do read the invisible soul; by men adroit
    In speech, and for communion with the world
    Accomplished, minds whose faculties are then
    Most active when they are most eloquent,
    And elevated most when most admired. 
    Men may be found of other mould than these;
    Who are their own upholders, to themselves
    Encouragement and energy and will;
    Expressing liveliest thoughts in lively words
    As native passion dictates.  Others, too,
    There are, among the walks of homely life,
    Still higher, men for contemplation framed;
    Shy, and unpractised in the strife of phrase;
    Meek men, whose very souls perhaps would sink
    Beneath them, summoned to such intercourse. 
    Theirs is the language of the heavens, the power,
    The thought, the image, and the silent joy: 
    Words are but under-agents in their souls;
    When they are grasping with their greatest strength
    They do not breathe among them; this I speak
    In gratitude to God, who feeds our hearts
    For His own service, knoweth, loveth us,
    When we are unregarded by the world.

II.  ADVICE TO THE YOUNG.

(a) LETTER TO THE EDITOR OF ‘THE FRIEND,’ SIGNED ‘MATHETES.’

(b) ANSWER TO THE LETTER OF ‘MATHETES.’

1809.

ADVICE TO THE YOUNG.

INTRODUCTION TO ‘THE FRIEND,’ VOL.  III. (1850).

(a) LETTER TO THE EDITOR BY ‘MATHETES.’