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Faithful, though swift as lightning, the Whole summer fields are thine by right; meek dove ;

And autumn, melancholy wight! Yet more hath nature reconciled in thee; Doth in thy crimson head delight So constant with thy downward eye of love, When rains are on thee. Yet, in aerial singleness, so tree; So humble, yet so ready to rejoice In shoals and bands, a morrice train, In power of wing and never-wearied voice ! Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane;

If welcome once thou count'st it gain; How would it please old ocean to partake, 'Thou art not daunted. With sailors longing for a breeze in vain, Nor car'st if thou be set at nought The harmony that thou best lov'st to make And oft alone in nooks remote Where earth resembles most his blank We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, domain !

(ear When such are wanted. Urania's self might welcome with pleased These mauns mounting towards her native Be violets in their secret mews sphere.

The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose.;

Proud be the rose, with rains and dew's Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no Her head impearling; bars

(suit, Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, To day-light known deter from that pur- Yet hast not gone without thy fame "Tis well that some sage instinct, when the Thou art indeed by many a claim stars

(mute : The poet's darling. Come forth at evening, keeps thee siill and For not an eyelid could to sleep incline If to a rock from rains he fly, Wert thou among them, singing as they Or, some bright day of April sky, shine!

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.
“Her* divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw
I could some instruction draw,

A hundred times, by rock or bower,
And raise pleasure to the height

Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,
Through the meanest object's sight. Have I derived from thy sweet power
By the murmur of a spring,

Some apprehension ;
Or the least bough's rustelling ;

Some steady love ; some brief delight;
By a daisy whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed;

Some memory that had taken flight ;
Or a shady bush or tree;

Some chime of fancy wrong or right ;
She could more infuse in me

Or stray invention.
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.”—G. WITHER.If stately passions in me burn,

And one chance look to thee should turn, IN youth from rock to rack I went,

I drink out of an humbler urn
From hill to hill in discontent

A lowlier pleasure ;
Or pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy i

The homely sympathy that heeds

The common life, our nature breeds ; But now my own delights I make,

A wisdom fitted to the needs
My thirst at every rill can slake,

Of hearts at leisure.
And gladly nature's love partake
Of thee, sweet daisy!

When, smitten by the morning ray,
When winter decks his few gray hairs,

I see thee rise, alert and gay,

Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play Thee in the scanty wreath he wears :

With kindred gladness :
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,

And when, at dusk, by dews opprest
That she may sun thee ;

Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest

Hath often eased my pensive breast
His muse.

Of careful sadness.

And all day long I number yet,

One have I marked, the happiest guest All seasons through, another debt,

In all this covert of the blest;
Which I, wherever thou art met,

Plail to thee, far above the rest
To thee am owing;

In joy of voice and pinion,
An instinct call it, a blind sense ;

Thou, Linnet ! in thy green array, A happy, genial influence,

Presiding spirit here to-day, Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Dost lead the revels of the May, Nor whither going.

And this is thy dominion. Child of the year! that round dost run

While birds, anu butterflies, and flowers Thy course, bold lover of the sun,

Make all one band of paramours, And cheerful when the day's begun

Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
As morning leveret,

Art sole in thy employment ;
Thy long-lost praise" thou shalt regain ; A life, a presence like the air,
Dear shalt thou be to future men

Scattering thy gladness without care, As in old time ;-thou not in vain,

Too blest with any one to pair,
Art nature's favourite.

Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Upon yon tuft of hazel trees,

That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill Behold him perched in ecstasies,
Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound; Yet seeming still to hover;
Then-all at once the air was still,

There ! where the flutter of his wings And showers of hailstones pattered round. Upon his back and body flings Where leafless oaks towered high above,

Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
I sat within an undergrove

That cover him all over.
Of tallest hollies, tall and green ;
A fairer bower was never seen.

My sight he dazzles, half deceives, From year to year the spacious floor A bird so like the dancing leaves ; With withered leaves is covered o'er, Then flits, and from the cottage eaves And all the year the bower is green.

Pours forth his song in gushes ; But see! where'er the hailstones drop,

As if by that exulting strain The withered leaves all skip and hop. He mocked and treated with disdain There's not a breeze--no breath of air- The voiceless form he chose to feign, Yet here, and there, and every where

While fluttering in the bushes.
Along the floor, beneath the shade
By those embowering hollies made,
The leaves in myriads jump and spring,

As if with pipes and music rare
Some Robin Good-fellow were there,

WITHIN her gilded cage confined, And all those leaves, in festive glee,

I saw a dazzling belle,
Were dancing to the minstrelsy.

A parrot of that famous kind
Whose name is NONPAREIL.

Like beads of glossy jet her eyes ;

And, smoothed by nature's skill,

With pearl or gleaming agate vies BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed Her finely-curved bill. Their snow-white blossoms on thy head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Her plumy mantle's living hues

of spring's unclouded weather, In mass opposed to mass, In this sequestered nook how sweet

Outshine the splendour that imbues To sit upon my orchard-seat !

The robes of pictured glass.
And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year's friends together. And, sooth to say an apter mate

Did never tempt the choice * See, in Chaucer and the elder poets, the

Of feathered thing most delicate honours formerly paid to this flower.

In figure and in voice.

But, exiled from Australian bowers,
And singleness her lot,
She trills her song with tutored powers,
Or mocks each casual note.

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, And pleased to be admired !

Eyes of some men travel far
For the finding of a star ;
Up and down the heavens they go,
Men that keep a mighty rout !
I'm as great as they, I rrow,
Since the day I found thee out,
Little flower !- I'll make a stir
Like a great astronomer.
Modest, yet withal an elf
Bold, and lavish of thyself ;
Since we needs must first have met
I have seen thee, high and low,
Thirty years or more, and yet
'Twas a face I did not know ;
Thou hast now, go where I may,
Fifty greetings in a day.
Ere a leaf is on a bush,
In the time before the thrush
Has a thought about its nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless prodigal ;
Telling tales about the sun,
When we've little warmth, or none
Poets, vain men in their mood !
Travel with the multitude ;
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!

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Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly unassuming spirit;
Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane-there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But 'tis good enough for thee.
Ill befall the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours !
Buttercups, that will be seen
Whether we will see or no;
Others, too, of lofty mien;
They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble celandine!


PANSIES, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
Let them live upon their praises ;
Long as there's a sun that sets
Primroses will have their glory ;
Long as there are violets,
They will have a place in story :
There's a flower that shall be mine,
"Tis the little celandine.

Prophet of delight and mirth,
Scorned and slighted upon earth!
Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,

• Common Pilewort

Singing at my heart's command,
In the lanes my thoughts pursuing,
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love !

Rear who will a pyramid ;
Praise it is enough for me,
If there be but three or four
Who will love my little flower.

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 ; All unheard of as thou art, Thou must needs, I think, have had, (elandine! and long ago, Praise of which I nothing know. I have not a doubt but he, Whosoe'er the man might be, Who the first with pointed rays (Workman worthy to be sainted) Set the sign-board in a blaze, When the risen 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 sheltered hold; Bright as any of the train When ye all are out again. Thou art not beyond the moon, But a thing “beneath our shoon;" Let the bold adventurer thrid in his bark the polar sea;


EGLANTINE. "BEGONE, thou fond presumptuous elf," Exclaimed a thundering voice,

Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
Between me and my choice!"
A small cascade fresh swoln with snows
Thus threatened a poor briar-rose,
That, all bespattered with his foam,
And dancing high and dancing lor,
Was living, as a child might know,
In an unhappy home.

· Dost thou presume my course to block ?
Off, off! or, puny thing!
I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock
To which thy fibres cling."
The flood was tyrannous and strong ;
The patient briar suffered long,
Nor did he utter groan or sigh,
Hoping the danger would be past :
But, seeing no relief, at last
He ventured to reply.
" Ah !" said the briar, “blame me not ;
Why should we dwell in strife?
We who in this sequestered spot
Once lived a happy life!
You stirred me on my rocky bed-
What pleasure through my veins you spread!
The summer long, from day to day,
My leaves you freshened and bedewed ;
Nor was it common gratitude
That did your cares repay.
“When spring came on with bud and bell,
Among these rocks did I
Before you hang my wreaths, to tell
The gentle days were nigh !
And in the sultry summer hours,
I sheltered you with leaves and flowers ;
And in my leaves—now shed and gone,
The linnet lodged, and for us two
Chanted his pretty songs, when you
Had little voice or none.
" But now proud thoughts are in your
What grief is mine you see. [breast-
Ah ! would you think, even yet how blest
Together we might be !

Though of both leaf and flower bereft, And hitherward pursued its way :
Some ornaments to me are left

This ponderous black was caught by me, Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,

And o'er your head, as you may see, With which I in my humble way,

"Tis hanging to this day! Would deck you many a winter's day, A happy eglantine !"

The thing had better been asleep

Whatever thing it were, What more he said I cannot tell,

Or breeze, or bird, or dog, or sheep, The torrent thundered down the dell

That first did plant you there. With aggravated haste;

For you and your green twigs decoy I listened, nor aught else couid hear;

The little witless shepherd-boy The briar quaked, and much I fear

To come and slumber in your bower; Those accents were his last.

And, trust me, on some sultry noon,
Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!

Will perish in one hour.
THE OAK AND THE BROOM. From me this friendly warning take'-

The Broom began to doze,

And thus to keep herself awake

Did gently interpose :
His simple truths did Andrew glean
Beside the babbling rills ;

My thanks for your discourse are due ; A careful student he had been

That more than what you say is true

I know, and I have known it long :
Among the woods and hills.
One winter's night, when through the trees Frail is the bond by which we hold
The wind was roaring, on his knees

Our being whether young or old,

Wise, foolish, weak, or strong.
His youngest born did Andrew hold:
And while the rest, a ruddy quire,

Disasters, do the best we can,
Were seated round their blazing fire, Will teach both great and small;
This tale the shepherd told :-

And he is oft the wisest man

Who is not wise at all. “I saw a crag, a lofty stone

For me, why should I wish to roam ! As ever tempest beat!

This spot is my paternal home, Out of its head an Oak had grown,

It is my pleasant heritage; A Broom out of its feet.

My father many, a happy year The time was March, a cheerful noon

Here spent his careless blossoms, here The thaw-wind, with the breath of June, Attained a good old age. Breathed gently from the warm south-west: When, in a voice sedate with age,

“ 'Even such as his may be my lot. This Oak, a giant and a sage,

What cause have I to haunt His neighbour thus addressed:

My heart with terrors ? Am I not

In truth a favoured plant ! "Eight weary weeks, through rock and On me such bounty summer pours, Along this mountain's edge, (clay, That I am covered o'er with flowers ; The frost hath wrought both night and day, And, when the frost is in the sky. Wedge driving after wedge.

My branches are so fresh and gay
Look up! and think above

That you might look at me and say,
What trouble, surely, will be bred ; This plant can never die.
Last night I heard a crash---'uis true,
'The splinters took another road-

"• The butterfly, all green and gold, I see them yonder-what a load

To me hath often flown, For such a thing as you !

Here in my blossoms to behold

Wings lovely as his own. "You are preparing as before,

When grass is chill with rain or dew, To deck your slender shape;

Beneath my shade, the mother ewe And yet, just three years back-no more- Lies with her infant lamb; I see You had a strange escape.

The love they to each other make, Down from yon ciiff a fragment broke; And the sweet joy, which they partake, In thundered down, with fire and smoke, It is a joy to me.

your head

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