Modest, yet withal an Elf

Bold, and lavish of thyself;

Since we needs must first have met

I have seen thee, high and low,
Thirty years or more, and yet
"T was a face I did not know;
Thou hast now, go where I may,
Fifty greetings in a day.

Ere a leaf is on a bush,

In the time before the Thrush
Has a thought about her nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless Prodigal;
Telling tales about the sun,

When we've little warmth or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood!
Travel with the multitude;
Never heed them; I aver

That they are all wanton Wooers;
But the thrifty Cottager,
Who stirs little out of doors,
Joys to spy thee near her home;
Spring is coming, Thou art come!

Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming Spirit!
Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane- there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,

But 't is good enough for thee.

Ill befall the yellow Flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no;
Others, too, of lofty mien;

They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth,
Ill-requited upon earth;
Herald of a mighty band,

Of a joyous train ensuing,
Serving at my heart's command,
Tasks that are no tasks renewing,
I will sing as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!

TO THE SAME FLOWER.
PLEASURES newly found are sweet
When they lie about our feet:
February last, my heart

First at sight of thee was glad;
All unheard of as thou art,

Thou must needs, I think, have had,

Celandine! and long ago,

Praise of which I nothing know

I have not a doubt but he,
Whosoe'er the man might be,
Who the first with pointed rays
(Workmen worthy to be sainted
Set the sign-board in a blaze,
When the rising son he painted,
Took the fancy from a glance
At thy glittering countenance.
Soon as gentle breezes bring
News of winter's vanishing,
And the children build their bowers
Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould
All about with full-blown flowers,
Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold.
With the proudest thou art there,
Mantling in the tiny square.

Often have I sighed to measure
By myself a lonely pleasure,
Sighed to think, I read a book
Only read, perhaps, by me;
Yet I long could overlook
Thy bright coronet and Thee,
And thy arch and wily ways,
And thy store of other praise.
Blithe of heart from week to week
Thou dost play at hide-and-seek;
While the patient primrose sits
Like a Beggar in the cold,
Thou, a Flower of wiser wits,
Slip'st into thy sheltering hold;
Liveliest of the vernal train
When ye all are out again.

Drawn by what peculiar spell,
By what charm of sight or smell,
Does the dim-eyed curious Bee,
Labouring for her waxen cells,
Fondly settle upon Thee,

Prized above all buds and bells
Opening daily at thy side,
By the season multiplied?

Thou art not beyond the moon,
But a thing "beneath our shoon:"
Let the bold Discoverer thrid
In his bark the polar sea;
Rear who will a pyramid;
Praise it is enough for me,
If there be but three or four
Who will love my little Flower.

THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE. "BEGONE, thou fond presumptuous Elf," Exclaimed an angry Voice,

"Nor dare to trust thy foolish self

Between me and my choice."

From me this friendly warning take'-
The Broom began to doze,

And thus, to keep herself awake,
Did gently interpose:

'My thanks for your discourse are due;
That more than what you say is true,
I know, and I have known it long;
Frail is the bond by which we hold
Our being, whether young or old,
Wise, foolish, weak, or strong.

Disasters, do the best we can,
Will reach both great and small
And he is oft the wisest man,
Who is not wise at all.

For me, why should I wish to roam?
This spot is my paternal home,
It is my pleasant heritage;
My Father, many a happy year,

Here spread his careless blossoms, here
Attained a good old age.

Even such as his may be my lot.
What cause have I to haunt
My heart with terrors? Am I not
In truth a favoured plant!

On me such bounty Summer pours,
That I am covered o'er with flowers;
And, when the Frost is in the sky,
My branches are so fresh and gay
That you might look at me, and say
This plant can never die.

The Butterfly, all green and gold,
To me hath often flown,

Here in my Blossoms to behold
Wings lovely as his own.

When grass is chill with rain or dew,
Beneath my shade, the mother Ewe
Lies with her infant Lamb; I see
The love they to each other make,
And the sweet joy, which they partake,
It is a joy to me.'

Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; The Broom might have pursued

Her speech, until the stars of night

Their journey had renewed;

But in the branches of the Oak

Two Ravens now began to croak

Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;

And to her own green bower the breeze

That instant brought two stripling Bees
To rest, or murmur there.

One night, my Children! from the North
There came a furious blast;

At break of day I ventured forth,
And near the Cliff I passed.

The storm had fallen upon the Oak,

And struck him with a mighty stroke, And whirled, and whirled him far away;

And, in one hospitable cleft,

The little careless Broom was left

To live for many a day."

SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL.

Founded upon a Belief prevalent among the Pastoral Vales of
Westmoreland.

SWIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel!
Night has brought the welcome hour,
When the weary fingers feel

Help, as if from faery power;

Dewy night o'ershades the ground:
Turn the swift wheel round and round!

Now, beneath the starry sky,
Couch the widely-scattered sheep; -
Ply the pleasant labour, ply!

For the spindle, while they sleep,
Runs with speed more smooth and fine,
Gathering up a trustier line.

Short-lived likings may be ored
By a glance from fickle eyes;
But true love is like the thread
Which the kindly wool supplies,
When the flocks are all at rest
Sleeping on the mountain's breast.

THE REDBREAST AND BUTTERFLY,
ART thou the Bird whom Man loves best,
The pious Bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English Robin;
The Bird that comes about our doorg
When Autumn winds are sobbing'
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors!
Their Thomas in Finland,
And Russia far inland?
The Bird, who by some name or other
All men who know thee call their Brother

The Darling of Children and men?
Could Father Adam* open his eyes
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.

If the Butterfly knew but his friend,
Hither his flight he would bend;
And find his way to me,
Under the branches of the tree:

*See Paradise Lost, Book XI., where Adam points out to Eve the ominous sign of the Eagle chasing "two Birds of guyest plume," and the gentle Hart and Hind pursued by their enemy

Can this be the Bird, to man so good,
That, after their bewildering,

Covered with leaves the little children,

So painfully in the wood?

What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue A beautiful Creature,

That is gentle by nature?

Beneath the summer sky

From flower to flower let him fly;

'Tis all that he wishes to do.

The Cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness,
He is the Friend of our summer gladness:
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the sunny weather,
And fly about in the air together!
Ha beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
A crimson as bright as thine own:
If thou would'st be happy in thy nest,
O pious Bird! whom man loves best,
Love him or leave him alone!

THE KITTEN

AND

THE FALLING LEAVES.

THAT way look, my Infant, lo!

What a pretty baby show!

See the Kitten on the Wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall,

Withered leaves — one— two- and three-
From the lofty Elder-tree!
Through the calm and frosty air,
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink
Softly, slowly one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or Faery hither tending, -
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,
In his wavering parachute.

But the Kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!
First at one, and then its fellow
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now-now one-
Now they stop and there are none;
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-leap half way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again:

Now she works with three or four,

Like an Indian Conjuror;
Quick as he in feats of art,

Far beyond in joy of heart.

Were her antics played in the eye

Of a thousand Standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the Crowd?
Over happy to be proud,

Over wealthy in the treasure

· Of her own exceeding pleasure!

"T is a pretty Baby-treat; Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; Here, for neither Babe nor me, Other Play-mate can I see. Of the countless living things, That with stir of feet and wings (In the sun or under shade, Upon bough or grassy blade) And with busy revellings, Chirp and song, and murmurings, Made this Orchard's narrow space, And this Vale so blithe a place; Multitudes are swept away, Never more to breathe the day: Some are sleeping; some in Bands Travelled into distant Lands; Others slunk to moor and wood, Far from human neighbourhood; And, among the Kinds that keep With us closer fellowship, With us openly abide,

All have laid their mirth aside.

Where is he that giddy Sprite,
Blue cap, with his colours bright,
Who was blest as bird could be,
Feeding in the apple-tree;

Made such wanton spoil and rout,
Turning blossoms inside out;
Hung with head towards the ground,
Fluttered, perched, into a round
Bound himself, and then unbound;
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin!
Prettiest Tumbler ever seen!

Light of heart and light of limb;

What is now become of Him?

Lambs, that through the mountains went

Frisking, bleating merriment,

When the year was in its prime,

They are sobered by this time.

If you look to vale or hill,

If you listen, ai. is still,
Save a little neighbouring Rill,
That from out the rocky ground
Strikes a solitary sound.

Vainly glitter hill and plain,
And the air is calm in vain;
Vainly Morning spreads the lure
Of a sky serene and pure;
Creature none can she decoy
Into open sign of joy:
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near?
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter oven than gaiety?

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell
In the impenetrable cell

Of the silent heart which Nature
Furnishes to every Creature;
Whatsoe'er we feel and know
Too sedate for outward show,
Such a light of gladness breaks,
Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks, —
Spreads with such a living grace
O'er my little Laura's face;
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine

That your transports are not mine,
That I do not wholly fare
Even as ye do, thoughtless Pair!
And I will have my careless season
Spite of melancholy reason,

Will walk through life in such a way
That, when time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
-Pleased by any random toy;
By a Kitten's busy joy,
Or an Infant's laughing eye
Sharing in the ecstasy;

I would. fare like that or this,
Find my wisdom in my bliss;
Keep the sprightly soul awake,
And have faculties to take,
Even from things by sorrow wrought,
Matter for a jocund thought,
Spite of care, and spite of grief,
To gambol with Life's falling Leaf.

A FLOWER GARDEN.

TELL me, ye Zephyrs! that unfold,
While fluttering o'er this gay Recess,
Pinions that fanned the teeming mould
Of Eden's blissful wilderness,
Did only softly-stealing Hours

There close the peaceful lives of flowers?

Say, when the moving Creatures saw
All kinds commingled without fear,
Prevailed a like indulgent law
For the still Growths that prosper here1
Did wanton Fawn and Kid forbear
The half-blown Rose, the Lily spare?

Or peeped they often from their beds
And prematurely disappeared,
Devoured like pleasure ere it spreads
A bosom to the Sun endeared?
If such their harsh untimely doom,
It falls not here on bud or bloom.

All Summer long the happy Eve
Of this fair Spot her flowers may bind,
Nor e'er, with ruffled fancy, grieve,
From the next glance she casts, to find
That love for little Things by Fate

Is rendered vain as love for great.

Yet, where the guardian Fence is wound,
So subtly is the eye beguiled

It sees not nor suspects a Bound,
No more than in some forest. wid;
Free as the light in semblance - cros
Only by art in nature lost.

And, though the jealous turf refuse By random footsteps to be prest, And feeds on never-sullied dews, Ye, gentle breezes from the West, With all the ministers of Hope, Are tempted to this sunny slope!

And hither throngs of birds resort; Some, inmates lodged in shady nests, Some, perched on stems of stately port That nod to welcome transient guests; While Hare and Leveret, seen at play, Appear not more shut out than they.

Apt emblem (for reproof of pride)
This delicate Enclosure shows
Of modest kindness, that would hide
The firm protection she bestows;
Of manners, like its viewless fence,
Ensuring peace to innocence.

Thus spake the moral Muse-her wing
Abruptly spreading to depart,
She left that farewell offering,
Memento for some docile heart;
That may respect the good old age
When Fancy was Truth's willing Puge;
And Truth would skim the flowery glade
Though entering but as Fancy's Shade.