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Faithful, though swift as lightning, the Whole summer fields are thine by right; meek dove ;
And autumn, melancholy wight! Yet more hath nature reconciled in thee; Doth in thy crimson head delight So constant with thy downward eye of love, When rains are on thee. Yet, in aerial singleness, so tree; So humble, yet so ready to rejoice In shoals and bands, a morrice train, In power of wing and never-wearied voice ! Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane;
If welcome once thou count'st it gain; How would it please old ocean to partake, 'Thou art not daunted. With sailors longing for a breeze in vain, Nor car'st if thou be set at nought The harmony that thou best lov'st to make And oft alone in nooks remote Where earth resembles most his blank We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, domain !
(ear When such are wanted. Urania's self might welcome with pleased These mauns mounting towards her native Be violets in their secret mews sphere.
The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose.;
Proud be the rose, with rains and dew's Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no Her head impearling; bars
(suit, Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, To day-light known deter from that pur- Yet hast not gone without thy fame "Tis well that some sage instinct, when the Thou art indeed by many a claim stars
(mute : The poet's darling. Come forth at evening, keeps thee siill and For not an eyelid could to sleep incline If to a rock from rains he fly, Wert thou among them, singing as they Or, some bright day of April sky, shine!
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie
Near the green holly,
He needs but look about, and there
Thou art !-a friend at hand, to scare
A hundred times, by rock or bower,
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,
Some apprehension ;
Some steady love ; some brief delight;
Some memory that had taken flight ;
Some chime of fancy wrong or right ;
Or stray invention.
And one chance look to thee should turn, IN youth from rock to rack I went,
I drink out of an humbler urn
A lowlier pleasure ;
The homely sympathy that heeds
The common life, our nature breeds ; But now my own delights I make,
A wisdom fitted to the needs
Of hearts at leisure.
When, smitten by the morning ray,
I see thee rise, alert and gay,
Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play Thee in the scanty wreath he wears :
With kindred gladness :
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.
And all day long I number yet,
One have I marked, the happiest guest All seasons through, another debt,
In all this covert of the blest;
Plail to thee, far above the rest
In joy of voice and pinion,
Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array, A happy, genial influence,
Presiding spirit here to-day, Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Dost lead the revels of the May, Nor whither going.
And this is thy dominion. Child of the year! that round dost run
While birds, anu butterflies, and flowers Thy course, bold lover of the sun,
Make all one band of paramours, And cheerful when the day's begun
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment ;
Scattering thy gladness without care, As in old time ;-thou not in vain,
Too blest with any one to pair,
Thyself thy own enjoyment.
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
There ! where the flutter of his wings And showers of hailstones pattered round. Upon his back and body flings Where leafless oaks towered high above,
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.
My sight he dazzles, half deceives, From year to year the spacious floor A bird so like the dancing leaves ; With withered leaves is covered o'er, Then flits, and from the cottage eaves And all the year the bower is green.
Pours forth his song in gushes ; But see! where'er the hailstones drop,
As if by that exulting strain The withered leaves all skip and hop. He mocked and treated with disdain There's not a breeze--no breath of air- The voiceless form he chose to feign, Yet here, and there, and every where
While fluttering in the bushes.
WITHIN her gilded cage confined, And all those leaves, in festive glee,
I saw a dazzling belle,
A parrot of that famous kind
Like beads of glossy jet her eyes ;
And, smoothed by nature's skill,
With pearl or gleaming agate vies BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed Her finely-curved bill. Their snow-white blossoms on thy head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Her plumy mantle's living hues
of spring's unclouded weather, In mass opposed to mass, In this sequestered nook how sweet
Outshine the splendour that imbues To sit upon my orchard-seat !
The robes of pictured glass.
Did never tempt the choice * See, in Chaucer and the elder poets, the
Of feathered thing most delicate honours formerly paid to this flower.
In figure and in voice.
But, exiled from Australian bowers,
No more of pity for regrets
Arch, volatile, a sportive bird By social glee inspired ; Ambitious to be seen or heard, And pleased to be admired !
Eyes of some men travel far
Comfort have thou of thy merit,
TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.*
PANSIES, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
Prophet of delight and mirth,
• Common Pilewort
Singing at my heart's command,
Rear who will a pyramid ;
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, (elandine! 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-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, Slipp'st into thy sheltered 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 the bold adventurer thrid in his bark the polar sea;
THE WATERFALL AND THE
EGLANTINE. "BEGONE, thou fond presumptuous elf," Exclaimed a thundering voice,
Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
· Dost thou presume my course to block ?
Though of both leaf and flower bereft, And hitherward pursued its way :
This ponderous black was caught by me, Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,
And o'er your head, as you may see, With which I in my humble way,
"Tis hanging to this day! Would deck you many a winter's day, A happy eglantine !"
The thing had better been asleep
Whatever thing it were, What more he said I cannot tell,
Or breeze, or bird, or dog, or sheep, The torrent thundered down the dell
That first did plant you there. With aggravated haste;
For you and your green twigs decoy I listened, nor aught else couid hear;
The little witless shepherd-boy The briar quaked, and much I fear
To come and slumber in your bower; Those accents were his last.
And, trust me, on some sultry noon,
Will perish in one hour.
The Broom began to doze,
And thus to keep herself awake
Did gently interpose :
My thanks for your discourse are due ; A careful student he had been
That more than what you say is true
I know, and I have known it long :
Our being whether young or old,
Wise, foolish, weak, or strong.
Disasters, do the best we can,
And he is oft the wisest man
Who is not wise at all. “I saw a crag, a lofty stone
For me, why should I wish to roam ! As ever tempest beat!
This spot is my paternal home, Out of its head an Oak had grown,
It is my pleasant heritage; A Broom out of its feet.
My father many, a happy year The time was March, a cheerful noon
Here spent his careless blossoms, here The thaw-wind, with the breath of June, Attained a good old age. Breathed gently from the warm south-west: When, in a voice sedate with age,
“ 'Even such as his may be my lot. This Oak, a giant and a sage,
What cause have I to haunt His neighbour thus addressed:
My heart with terrors ? Am I not
In truth a favoured plant ! "Eight weary weeks, through rock and On me such bounty summer pours, Along this mountain's edge, (clay, That I am covered o'er with flowers ; The frost hath wrought both night and day, And, when the frost is in the sky. Wedge driving after wedge.
My branches are so fresh and gay
That you might look at me and say,
"• The butterfly, all green and gold, I see them yonder-what a load
To me hath often flown, For such a thing as you !
Here in my blossoms to behold
Wings lovely as his own. "You are preparing as before,
When grass is chill with rain or dew, To deck your slender shape;
Beneath my shade, the mother ewe And yet, just three years back-no more- Lies with her infant lamb; I see You had a strange escape.
The love they to each other make, Down from yon ciiff a fragment broke; And the sweet joy, which they partake, In thundered down, with fire and smoke, It is a joy to me.