THE REDBREAST AND BUTTERFLY. ART thou the Bird whom Man loves best, The Bird that comes about our doors And Russia far inland? The Bird, who by some name or other If the Butterfly knew but his friend, Under the branches of the tree : In and out, he darts about; Can this be the Bird, to man so good, That, after their bewildering, Covered with leaves the little children, So painfully in the wood? 1 See Paradise Lost, Book XI., where Adam points out to Eve the ominous sign of the Eagle chasing "two Birds of gayest plume," and the gentle Hart and Hind pursued by their enemy. What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue A beautiful Creature, That is gentle by nature? Beneath the summer sky From flower to flower let him fly; 'Tis all that he wishes to do. The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness, WRITTEN IN MARCH, WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER. THE cock is crowing, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun ; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest ; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! Like an army defeated On the top of the bare hill; The Ploughboy is whooping-anon-anon : TO THE DAISY. BRIGHT flower, whose home is everywhere! And oft, the long year through, the heir Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other flower I see The forest thorough! And wherefore? Man is soon deprest; Or on his reason; But Thou would'st teach him how to find A shelter under every wind, A hope for times that are unkind And every season. TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.1 PANSIES, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies, They will have a place in story: Eyes of some men travel far For the finding of a star; Up and down the heavens they go, Modest, yet withal an Elf Bold, and lavish of thyself; Since we needs must first have met 1 Common Pilewort. Ere a leaf is on a bush, In the time before the Thrush When we've little warmth, or none. Poets, vain men in their mood! 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, Ill befall the yellow Flowers, |