TO THE DAISY. 1802. - 1807. BRIGHT Flower! whose home is everywhere, 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 Is it that Man is soon deprest, A thoughtless thing! who, once unblest, Or on his reason, And Thou would'st teach him how to find A hope for times that are unkind Thou wander'st the wide world about, Yet pleased and willing; Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, In peace fulfilling. ΙΟ 20 THE GREEN LINNET. 1803.- 1807. BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed In this sequestered nook how sweet And birds and flowers once more to greet, 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, Dost lead the revels of the May; While birds and butterflies and flowers Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, A Life, a Presence like the Air, Thyself thy own enjoyment. ΙΟ 20 Amid yon tuft of hazel-trees, Yet seeming still to hover; My dazzled sight he oft deceives, As if by that exulting strain He mocked and treated with disdain YEW-TREES. 1803.-1815. THERE is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea 40 309 Of vast circumference and gloom profound To be destroyed. But worthier still of note Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved; Nor uniformed with Phantasy, and looks Of boughs, as if for festal purpose decked May meet at noontide, - Fear and trembling Hope, And Time the Shadow, - there to celebrate, As in a natural temple scattered o'er ΙΟ 20 30 AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS. SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH. 1803.-1845. I SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold, So sadness comes from out the mould And have I then thy bones so near As if it were thyself that's here I shrink with pain; And both my wishes and my Alike are vain. Off weight ΙΟ fear nor press on weight! away Dark thoughts! - they came, but not to stay; The tribute due To him, and aught that hides his clay Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth 20 |