And many a fond and idle name A nun demure of lowly port; Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, Of all temptations: A queen in crown of rubies drest; A starveling in a scanty vest; Are all, as seems to suit thee best, A little cyclops, with one eye That thought comes next-and instantly The shape will vanish-and behold That spreads itself some faery bold I see thee glittering from afar- In heaven above thee! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Who shall reprove thee! Bright Flower! for by that name at last, I call thee, and to that cleave fast, That breath'st with me in sun and air, 1805. IX. THE GREEN LINNET. BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed And birds and flowers once more to greet, Hail to Thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion! Thou, Linnet! in thy green array, And this is thy dominion. While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, Thyself thy own enjoyment. Yet seeming still to hover; My dazzled sight he oft deceives, He mocked and treated with disdain 1803. X. TO A SKY-LARK. Up with me! up with me into the clouds! With clouds and sky about thee ringing, That spot which seems so to thy mind! I have walked through wildernesses dreary And to-day my heart is weary: Had I now the wings of a Faery, Up to thee would I fly. There is madness about thee, and joy divine In that song of thine: Lift me, guide me high and high To thy banqueting-place in the sky. Joyous as morning Thou art laughing and scorning; Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, With a soul as strong as a mountain river But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, Up and down the heavens they go, Ere a leaf is on a bush, In the time before the thrush But 'tis good enough for thee. 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! 1803. XII. 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; Thou must needs, I think, have had, Praise of which I nothing know. I have not a doubt but he, Who the first with pointed rays (Workman worthy to be sainted) Set the sign-board in a blaze, When the rising 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 sheltering hold; Liveliest of the vernal train When ye are all 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 shoor 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. 1803. XIII. THE SEVEN SISTERS; THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE. I. SEVEN Daughters had Lord Archibald, Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, II. Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the shores of Erin, 97 ART thou the bird whom Man loves best, The bird that comes about our doors And Russia far inland? The bird, that by some name or other -If the Butterfly knew but his friend, Under the branches of the tree: Can this be the bird, to man so good, 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? From flower to flower let him fly; The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness, 1806. XIV. WHO fancied what a pretty sight XVI. SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL. FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES OF WESTMORELAND. SWIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel! Help, as if from faery power; Dewy night o'ershades the ground: Turn the swift wheel round and round! FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS. "WHO but hails the sight with pleasure With great enterprise; The stormy skies! Mark him, how his power he uses, Clouds and utter glooms! Even her own needle that subdued Arachne's rival spirit, Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood, And this, too, from the Laureate's Child, How will her Sire be reconciled I spake, when whispered a low voice, And suit their slender lays Some, still more delicate of ear, Have lutes (believe my words) Whose framework is of gossamer, While sunbeams are the chords. Gay Sylphs this miniature will court, Made vocal by their brushing wings, Whence strains to love-sick maiden dear, Trust, angry Bard! a knowing Sprite, 1827. XIX. TO A LADY, IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD FAIR Lady! can I sing of flowers I who ne'er sate within their bowers, Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed: How they in sprightly dance are worn By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen, Or holy festal pomps adorn, These eyes have never seen. No like remembrances can give, Still as we look with nicer care, Some new resemblance we may trace: From earth to heaven with motion fleet From heaven to earth our thoughts will pass, A Holy-thistle here we meet And there a Shepherd's weather-glass; And haply some familiar name Shall grace the fairest, sweetest plant Whose presence cheers the drooping frame Of English Emigrant. Gazing she feels its power beguile 99 [In which this Child of Spring was reared, If called to choose between the favoured pair, Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath; By lady-fingers tended with nice care, Alas! that meek, that tender smile Is but a harbinger of death: And pointing with a feeble hand She says, in faint words by sighs broken, Bear for me to my native land This precious Flower, true love's last token. XX. GLAD sight wherever new with old Is joined through some dear homeborn tie; The beauty vain of field and grove, XXI. THE CONTRAST. THE PARROT AND THE WREN. WITHIN her gilded cage confined, Like beads of glossy jet her eyes; Her plumy mantle's living hues, And, sooth to say, an apter Mate Of feathered Thing most delicate But, exiled from Australian bowers, She trills her song with tutored powers, No more of pity for regrets With which she may have striven! Now but in wantonness she frets, Or spite, if cause be given; Arch, volatile, a sportive bird By social glee inspired; Ambitious to be seen or heard, 11. THIS MOSS-LINED shed, green, soft, and dry, Caressed, applauded, upon dainties fed, |