Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell! For two months now in vain we shall be sought; We leave you here in solitude to dwell

With these our latest gifts of tender thought; Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat, Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell! Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought, And placed together near our rocky Well.

We go for One to whom ye will be dear;

And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed,
Our own contrivance, Building without peer!
A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred,
Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered,
With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer,
Will come to you; to you herself will wed;

And love the blessed life that we lead here.

Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed,
Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown
Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,
Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own,
Making all kindness registered and known,
Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed,
Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,

Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.

And O most constant, yet most fickle Place,

That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show

To them who look not daily on thy face;

Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know, And say'st, when we forsake thee, "Let them go!" Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, And travel with the year at a soft pace.

Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by,

And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best; Joy will be flown in its mortality;

Something must stay to tell us of the rest.

Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast
Glittered at evening like a starry sky;

And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,
Of which I sang one song that will not die.

O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep

Hath been so friendly to industrious hours; And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep

Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers, And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers; Two burning months let summer overleap, And, coming back with Her who will be ours, Into thy bosom we again shall creep.

TO THE DAISY.

"Her* divine skill taught me this,
That from everything 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."

* His muse.

-G. WITHER.

IN From bill to hill in discontent

'N youth from rock to rock I went,

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,
Öf Thee, sweet Daisy !

Thee Winter in the garland wears
That thinly decks his few grey hairs ;
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,
That she may sun thee;
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;
Pleased at his greeting thee again;
Yet nothing daunted,

Nor grieved 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,
Yet hast not gone without thy fame;
Thou art indeed by many a claim
The Poet's darling.

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.

Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,
When thou art up, 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 pleasant course-when day's begun
As ready to salute the sun

As lark or leveret,

Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ;
Nor be less dear to future men
Than in old time-thou not in vain
Art Nature's favourite.*

*

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, 3RD SEPTEMBER 1802.

E

ARTH has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty :

This City now doth, like a garment, wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

See, in Chaucer and the older Poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower.