XII. TO THE SAME FLOWER. BRIGHT flower, whose home is every where ! A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care, And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other Flower I see The forest thorough! Is it that Man is soon deprest? A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest, Does little on his memory rest, Or on his reason, And Thou would'st teach him how to find A shelter under every wind, A hope for times that are unkind And every season? Thou wanderest the wide world about, Unchecked by pride or scrupulous doubt, With friends to greet thee, or without, Yet pleased and willing; Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, In peace fulfilling. For thy song, Lark, is strong; Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! With all the heavens about thee ringing, That spot which seems so to thy mind! I have walked through wildernesses dreary, heart is weary; And to-day my heart is Had I now the wings of a Faery, Up to thee would I fly. There is madness about thee, and joy divine Up with me, up with me, high and high, Joyous as Morning, Thou art laughing and scorning; Thou hast a nest, for thy love and thy rest: To be such a Traveller as I. Happy, happy Liver! With a soul as strong as a mountain River, What though my course be rugged and uneven, XIV. TO A SEXTON. LET thy wheel-barrow alone In thy Bone-house bone on bone? In a field of battle made, Where three thousand skulls are laid, -These died in peace each with the other, Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother. Mark the spot to which I point! Andrew's whole fire-side is there. Here, alone, before thine eyes, Simon's sickly Daughter lies, From weakness, now, and pain defended, Whom he twenty winters tended. |