And all the year the bower is green. But see! where'er the hailstones drop, The wither'd leaves all skip and hop, There's not a breeze-no breath of air- Yet here, and there, and everywhere Along the floor, beneath the shade By those embowering hollies made, The leaves in myriads jump and spring, As if, with pipes and music rare, Some Robin Goodfellow were there, And all those leaves, in festive glee, Were dancing to the minstrelsy.
WITH how sad steps, O Moon, thou climb'st the sky, How silently, and with how wan a face!* Where art thou? Thou whom I have seen on high Running among the clouds a wood-nymph's race! Unhappy nuns, whose common breath's a sigh Which they would stifle, move at such a pace! The northern wind, to call thee to the chase, Must blow to-night his bugle-horn. Had I The power of Merlin, goddess! this should be: And all the stars now shrouded up in heaven, Should sally forth, to keep thee company.
What strife would then be yours, fair creatures, driven, Now up, now down, and sparkling in your glee! But, Cynthia, should to thee the palm be given, Queen, both for beauty and for majesty.
THE GREEN LINNET.
BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequester'd nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And flowers and birds once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
One have I mark'd, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion.
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array, Presiding spirit here to-day, Dost lead the revels of the May,
And this is thy dominion.
While birds, and butterflies, and flowers Make all one band of paramours,
• From a sonnet of Sir Philip Sydney.
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, Art sole in thy employment;
A life, a presence like the air, Scattering thy gladness without care, Too blest with any one to pair, Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Upon yon tuft of hazel trees, That twinkle to the gusty breeze, Behold him perch'd in ecstasies, Yet seeming still to hover; There! where the flutter of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings, That cover him all over.
While thus before my eyes he gleams, A brother of the leaves he seems; When in a moment forth he teems His little song in gushes: As if it pleased him to disdain
And mock the form which he did feign, While he was dancing with the train Of leaves among the bushes.
TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.* PANSIES, lilies, kingcups, daisies, Let them live upon their praises; Long as there's a sun that sets, Primroses will have their glory; Long as there are violets,
They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, "Tis the little Celandine.
Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star;
Up and down the heavens they go, Men that keep a mighty rout! I'm as great as they, I trow, Since the day I found thee out, Little flower!-I'll make a stir Like a great astronomer.
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 "Twas 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 its 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 all are 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 'tis 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,
Scorn'd and slighted upon earth! Herald of a mighty band, Of a joyous train ensuing, Singing at my heart's command, In the lanes my thoughts pursuing, 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, (Workman worthy to be sainted) Set the sign-board in a blaze, When the risen sun 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-pots 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 sigh'd to measure By myself a lonely pleasure, Sigh'd 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,
Slipp'st into thy shelter'd hold; Bright as any of the train
When ye all are out again.
Thou art not beyond the moon,
But a thing "beneath our shoon: "*
Let, as old Magellan did,
Others roam about the sea; Build 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," Exclaim'd a thundering voice,
"Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
Between me and my choice!" A falling Water swoln with snows Thus spake to a poor Brier-rose, That, all bespatter'd with his foam,
And dancing high, and dancing low, Was living, as a child might know, In an unhappy home.
"Dost thou presume my course to block? Off, off! or, puny thing!
I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock To which thy fibres cling."
The flood was tyrannous and strong; The patient Brier suffer'd long,
Nor did he utter groan or sigh,
Hoping the danger would be past:
But, seeing no relief, at last
He ventured to reply.
"Ah!" said the Brier, "blame me not;
Why should we dwell in strife?
We who in this, our natal spot,
Once lived a happy life!
You stirr'd me on my rocky bed
What pleasure through my veins you spread!
The summer long, from day to day,
My leaves you freshen'd and bedew'd;
Nor was it common gratitude
That did your cares repay.
"When Spring came on with bud and bell,
Among these rocks did I
Before you hang my wreaths, to tell
That gentle days were nigh!
And, in the sultry summer hours,
I shelter'd you with leaves and flowers; And in my leaves-now shed and gone, The linnet lodged, and for us two Chanted his pretty songs, when you Had little voice or none.
"But now proud thoughts are in your What grief is mine you see.
Ah! would you think, even yet how blest Together we might be !
Though of both leaf and flower bereft,
Some ornaments to me are left
Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,
With which I, in my humble way, Would deck you many a winter's day, A happy Eglantine!"
What more he said I cannot tell : The torrent thunder'd down the dell With unabating haste :
I listen'd, nor ought else could hear; The Brier quaked-and much I fear Those accents were his last.
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