Faithful, though swift as lightning, the | Whole summer fields are thine by right;
And autumn, melancholy wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane; If welcome once thou count'st it gain; Thou art not daunted,
Nor car'st if thou be set at nought And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
Be violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose; Proud be the rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling ;
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, hast not gone without thy fame. Thou art indeed by many a claim The poet's darling.
Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no bars [suit, To day-light known deter from that pur-Yet "Tis well that some sage instinct, when the [mute: Come forth at evening, keeps thee still and For not an eyelid could to sleep incline Wert thou among them, singing as they shine!
"Her divine skill taught me this, That from every thing I saw I could some instruction draw, And raise pleasure to the height Through the meanest object's sight. By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rustelling; By a daisy whose leaves spread Shut when Titan goes to bed; Or a shady bush or tree; She could more infuse in me Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man."-G. WITHER.
IN youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy; But now my own delights I make,— My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly nature's love partake Of thee, sweet daisy!
When winter decks his few gray hairs, Thee in the scanty wreath he wears : Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, That she may sun thee;
If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie
Near the green holly,
And wearily at length should fare; He needs but look about, and there Thou art a friend at hand, to scare His melancholy.
A hundred times, by rock or bower, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension;
Some steady love; some brief delight; Some memory that had taken flight; Some chime of fancy wrong or right; Or stray invention.
If stately passions in me burn,
And one chance look to thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn A lowlier pleasure ;
The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds; 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 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, All seasons through, another debt, Which I, wherever thou art met,
To thee am owing;
An instinct call it, a blind sense; A happy, genial influence,
Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Nor whither going.
Child of the year! that round dost run Thy course, bold lover of the sun, And cheerful when the day's begun As morning leveret,
Thy long-lost praise* thou shalt regain ; Dear shalt thou be to future men As in old time;-thou not in vain, Art nature's favourite.
A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound; Then-all at once the air was still, And showers of hailstones pattered round. Where leafless oaks towered high above, I sat within an undergrove
Of tallest hollies, tall and green; A fairer bower was never seen. From year to year the spacious floor With withered leaves is covered o'er, And all the year the bower is green. But see! where'er the hailstones drop, The withered leaves all skip and hop, There's not a breeze-no breath of air- Yet here, and there, and every where 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 Good-fellow were there, And all those leaves, in festive glee, Were dancing to the minstrelsy.
THE GREEN LINNET.
BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on thy head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat !
And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
* See, in Chaucer and the elder poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower.
One have I marked, 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, 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 perched 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.
My sight he dazzles, half deceives, A bird so like the dancing leaves; Then flits, and from the cottage eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes; As if by that exulting strain He mocked and treated with disdain The voiceless form he chose to feign, While fluttering in the bushes.
THE CONTRAST.
WITHIN her gilded cage confined, I saw a dazzling belle,
A parrot of that famous kind Whose name is NONPAREIL.
Like beads of glossy jet her eyes; And, smoothed by nature's skill, With pearl or gleaming agate vies Her finely-curvèd bill.
Her plumy mantle's living hues In mass opposed to mass, Outshine the splendour that imbues The robes of pictured glass.
And, sooth to say an apter mate Did never tempt the choice Of feathered thing most delicate In figure and in voice.
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,
Scorned 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!
Rear who will a pyramid ; Praise it is enough for me, If there be but three or four Who will love my little flower.
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-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 Between me and my choice!"
A small cascade fresh swoln with snows Thus threatened a poor briar-rose, That, all bespattered 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 briar suffered 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 briar, "blame me not; Why should we dwell in strife? We who in this sequestered spot Once lived a happy life!
You stirred me on my rocky bed- What pleasure through my veins you spread! The summer long, from day to day, My leaves you freshened and bedewed; Nor was it common gratitude That did your cares repay.
And hitherward pursued its way: This ponderous block was caught by me, And o'er vour head, as you may see, "Tis hanging to this day!
"The thing had better been asleep Whatever thing it were,
Or breeze, or bird, or dog, or sheep, That first did plant you there.
For you and your green twigs decoy The little witless shepherd-boy
To come and slumber in your bower; And, trust me, on some sultry noon, Both you and he, Heaven knows how scon! Will perish in one hour.
"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 teach 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 spent 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."
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