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Eddying round and round they sink
Softly, slowly: one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or faery hither tending,–
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,
In his wavering parachute.

- But the kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!
First at one, and then its fellow
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many row-now one-
Now they stop; and there are none-
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire !
With a riger-leap half way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again :
Now she works with three or four
Like an Indian conjuror ;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics played in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd ?
Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure!

Who was blest as bird could be, Feeding in the apple-tree; Made such wanton spoil and rout, Turning blossoms inside out; Hung with head towards the ground, Fluttered, perched, into a round Bound himself, and then unbound? Lithest, gaudiest harlequin ! Prettiest tumbler ever seen! Light of heart, and light of lim What is now become of him ! Lambs that through the mountains went Frisking, bleating merriment, When the year was in its prime, They are sobered by this time. If you look to vale or hill, If you listen, all is still, Save a little neighbouring rill, That from out the rocky ground Strikes a solitary sound. Vainly glitters hill and plain, And the air is calm in vain ; Vainly morning spreads the lure of a sky serene and pure ; Creature none can she decoy Into open sigo of joy : Is it that they have a fear Of the dreary season near? Or that other pleasures be Sweeter even than gaiety ?

'Tis a pretty baby-treat, Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; Here, for neither babe nor me, Other playmate can I see. Of the countless living things, That with stir of feet and wings, (In the sun or under shade Upon bough or grassy blade) And with busy revellings, Chirp and song, and murmurings, Made this orchard's narrow space, And this vale so blithe a place; Multitudes are swept away Never more to breathe the day: Some are sleeping; some in bands Travelled into distant lands; Others slunk to moor and wood, Far from human neighbourhood ; And, among the kinds that keep With us closer fellowship, With us openly abide, All have laid their mirth aside. Where is he that giddy sprite, Blue-cap, with his colours bright,

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell In the impenetrable cell Of the silent heart which nature Furnishes to every creature ; Whatsoe'er we feel and know Too sedate for outward show, Such a light of gladness breaks, Pretty kitten ! from thy freaks,Spreads with such a living grace O'er my little Laura's face ; Yes, the sight so stirs and charms Thee, baby, laughing in my arms, That almost I could repine That your transports are not mine, That I do not wholly fare Even as ye do, thoughtless pair ! And I will have my careless season Spite of melancholy reason ; Will walk through life in such a way That, when time brings on decay, Now and then I may possess Hours of perfect gladsoineness. - Pleased by any random toy: By a kitten's busy joy, Or an infant's laughing eye Sharing in the ecstasy ;

I would fare like that or this,
Find my wisdom in my bliss ;
Keep the sprightly soul awake.
And have faculties to take,
Even from things by sorrow ught,
Maiter for a jocund thought,
Spite of care, and spite of grief,
Io gambol with life's falling leaf.

That nod to welcome transient guests ; While hare and leveret, seen at play, Appear not more shut out than they. Apt emblem (for reproof of pride) This delicate enclosure shows Of modest kindness, that would hide The firm protection she bestows; Of manners, like its viewless fence, Ensuring peace to innocence. Thus spake the moral muse—her wing Abruptly spreading to depart, She left that farewell offering, Memento for some docile heart ; That may respect the good old age When fancy was truth's willing page : And truth would skim the flowery glade, Though entering but as fancy's shade.

A FLOWER GARDEN. Tell me, ye zephyrs ! that unfold, While fluttering o'er this gay recess, Pinions that fanned the teeming mould Of Eden's blissful wilderness, Did only softly-stealing hours, There close the peaceful lives of flowers ? Say, when the moving creatures saw All kinds commingled without fear, Prevailed alike indulgent law For the still growths that prosper here? Did wanion fawn and kid forbear The balf-blown rose, the lily spare ? Or peeped they often from their beds And prematurely disappeared, Devoured like pleasure ere it spreads A bosom to the sun endeared ? If such their harsh untimely doom, It falls not here on bud or bloom. All summer long the happy Eve Of this fair spot her flowers may bind, Nor e'er, with ruffled fancy, grieve, From the next glance she casts, to find That love for little things by fate Is rendered vain as love for great. Yet, where the guardian fence is wound, So subtly is the eye beguiled It sees not nor suspects a bound, No more than in some forest wild ; Free as the light in semblance-crost Only by art in nature lost. And, though the jealous turf refuse By random footsteps to be prest, And feeds on never-sullied dews, Ye, gentle breezes from the west, With all the ministers of hope, Are tempted to this sunny slope ! And hither throngs of birds resort : Some, inmates lodged in shady nests, Some, perched on stems of stately port

With little here to do or see
of things that in the great world be,
Sweet daisy ! oft I talk to thee,

For thou art worthy,
Thou unassuming common-place
Of nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a grace,

Which love makes for thee !
Oft on the dappled turf at ease
I sit, and play with similes,
Loose types of things through all degrees,

Thoughts of thy raising ·
And many a fond and idle name
I give to thee, for praise or blame,
As is the humour of the game,

While I am gazing.
A nun demure, of lowly port;
Or sprightly maiden, of love's court,
In thy simplicity the sport

Of all tenptations ;
A queen in crown of rubies drest;
A starveling in a scanty vest ;
Are all, as seems to suit thee best,

Thy appellations.
A little Cyclops, with one eye
Staring to threaten and defy,
That thought comes next-and instantly

The freak is over,
The shape will vanislı, and behold
A silver shield with boss of gold,
That spreads itself, some faery bo.d

In fight to cover !


I see thee glittering from afar ;

I have walked through wildernesses dr rary, And then thou art a pretty star;

And to-day my heart is weary ;
Not quite so fair as many are

Had I now the wings of a faery
In heaven above thee !

Up to thee would I fly.
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, There is madness about thee, and joy divine
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ;- In that song of thine ;
May peace come never to his nest,

Up with me, up with me, high and high Who shall reprove thee !

To thy banqueting-place in the sky! Sweet flower ! for by that name at last,

Joyous as morning, When all my reveries are past,

Thou art laughing and scorning : I call thee, and to that cleave fast,

Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest, Sweet silent creature !

And, though little troubled with sloth, That breath'st with me in sun and air,

Drunken lark! thou wouldst be loth Do thou, as thou art wont, repair

To be such a traveller as I.
My heart with gladness, and a share

Happy, happy liver,
Of thy meek nature !

With a soul as strong as a mountain river
Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver,

Joy and jollity be with us both !

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven, Bright flower, whose home is everywhere! Through prickly moors or dusty ways must A pilgrim bold in nature's care, And all the long year through the heir But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, Of joy or sorrow,

As full of gladness and as free of heaven, Methinks that there abides in thee

1, with my fate contented, will plod on, Some concord with humanity,

And hope for higher raptures, when life's Given to no other flower I see

day is done.
The forest thorough !
Is it that man is soon deprest ?

A thoughtless thing! who, once unblest,
Does little on his memory rest,

Let thy wheelbarrow alone-
Or on his reason ;

Wherefore, sexton, piling still
But thou wouldst teach him how to find In thy bone-house bone on bone?
A shelter under every wind,

"Tis already like a hill A hope for times that are unkind

In a field of battle made,
And every season.

Where three thousand skulls are laid ;

These died in peace each with the other, Thou wander'st the wide world about,

Father, sister, friend, and brother.
Unchecked by pride or scrupulous doubt,
With friends to greet thee, or without,

Mark the spot to which I point !
Yet pleased and willing ;

From this platform, eight feet square, Meek, yielding to the occasion's call,

Take not even a finger joint: And all things suffering from all,

Andrew's whole fire-side is there,
Thy function apostolical

Here, alone, before thine eyes,
In peace fulfilling.

Simon's sickly daughter lies,
From weakness now, and pain defended,

Whom he twenty winters tended,

Look but at the gardener's pride-
UP with me! up with me into the clouds ! How he glories, when he sees

For thy song, lark, is strong : Roses, lilies, side by side, Up with me, up with me into the clouds ! Violets in families ! Singing, singing,

By the heart of man, his tears, With clouds and sky about thee ringing, By his hopes and by his fears, Lift me, guide me till I find

Thou, old grey-beard ! art the warden That spot which seems so to thy mind Of a far superior garden.

Thus then, each to other dear,
Let them all in quiet lie,
Andrew there, and Susan here,
Neighbours in mortality.
And, should I live through sun and rain
Seven widowed years without my Jane,
sexton, do not then remove her,
Let one grave hold the loved and lover!

Though the sea-horse in the ocean Own no dear domestic cave, Yet he slumbers-by the motion Rocked of many a gentle wave. The fleet ostrich, till day closes Vagrant over desert sands, Brooding on her eggs reposes When chill night inat care demands. ray and night my toils redouble, Never nearer to the goal ; Night and day, I feel the trouble Oi the wanderer in my soul.

Who fancied what a pretty sight
This rock would be if edged around
With living snowdrops ? circlet bright!
How glorious to this orchard-ground !
Who loved the little rock, and set
Upon its head this coronet ?
Was it the humour of a child ?
Or rather of some love-sick maid,
Whose brows, the day that she was styled
The shepherd queen, were thus arrayed ?
Of man mature, or matron sage?
Or old-man toying with his age ?
I asked—'twas whispered—The device
To each and all might well belong :
It is the spirit of Paradise
That prompts such work, a spirit strong,
That gives to all the self-same bent
Where life is wise and innocent.

SONG FOR THE WANDERING JEW. THOUGH the torrents from their fountains Roar down many a craggy steep, Yet they find among the mountains Resting-places calm and deep. Clouds that love through air to hasten, Ere the storm its fury stills, Helmet-like themselves will fasten On the heads of towering hills. What, if through the frozen centre Of the Alps the chamois bound, Yet he has a home to enter In some nook of chosen ground. If on windy days the raven Gambol like a dancing skiff, Not the less she loves her haven In the bosom of the cliff.

THE SEVEN SISTERS ; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE. Seven daughters had Lord Archibald, All children of one mother : I could not say in one short da) Wiat love they bore each other. A garland of seven lilies wrought! Seven sisters that together dwell, But he, bold knight as ever fought, Their father, took of them no, thought, He loved the wars so well. Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie ! Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the shores of Erin, Across the wave, a rover brave To Binnorie is steering : Right onward to the Scottish strand The gallant ship is borne ; The warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the leader of the band Hath blown his bugle horn. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. Beside a grotto of their own, With boughs above them closing, The seven are laid, and in the shade They lie like fawns reposing. But now, upstarting with affright At noise of man and steed, Away they fly to left, to rightOf your fair househuld, father knight, Methinks you take small heed ! Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. Away the seven fair Campbells fly, And, over hill and hollow, With menace proud, and insult loud, The youthful rovers follow.

Cried they, “Your father loves to roam : Within this nook the lonesome bird
Enough for him to find

Did never build her nest.
The empty house when he comes home; No beast, no bird hath here his home;
For us your yellow ringlets comb,

Bees, wafted on the breezy air, For us be fair and kind !"

Pass high above those fragrant bells Sing, mournfully, oh ! mournfully,

To other flowers; to other dells The solitude of Binnorie.

Their burthens do they bear ;

The Danish boy walks here alone :
Some close behind, some side by side, The lovely dell is all his own.
Like clouds in stormy weather,
They run, and cry, " Nay let us die, A spirit of noon-day is he;
And let us die together."

He seems a form of flesh and blood; A lake was near; the shore was steep ;

Nor piping shepherd shall he be, There never foot had been ;

Nor herd-boy of the wood. They ran, and with a desperate leap

A regal vest of fur he wears, Together plunged into the deep,

In colour like a raven's wing ; Nor ever more were seen.

It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew ; Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

But in the storin 'tis fresh and blue The solitude of Binnorie.

As budding pines in spring ;

His helmet was a vernal grace, The stream that flows out of the lake,

Fresh as the bloom upon his face
As through the glen it rambles,

A harp is from his shoulder slung ;
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
For those seven lovely Campbells.

He rests the harp upon his knee ;

And there, in a forgotten tongue, Seven little islands, green and bare,

He warbles melody. Have risen from out the deep :

Of flocks upon the neighbouring hill The fishers say, those sisters fair

He is the darling and the joy ; By fairies are all buried there,

And often, when no cause appears, And there together sleep.

The mountain ponies prick their ears,
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie.

They hear the Danish boy,
While in the dell he sits alone

Beside the tree and corner-stone.

There sits he: in his face you spy

No trace of a ferocious air, BETWEEN two sister moorland rills Nor ever was a cloudless sky There is a spot that seems to lie

So steady or so fair. Sacred to flowerets of the hills,

The lovely Danish boy is blest And sacred to the sky.

And happy in his flowery cove : And in this smooth and open dell

From bloody deeds his thoughts are far: There is a tempest-stricken tree ;

And yet he warbles songs of war, A corner-stone by lightning cut,

That seem like songs of love, The last stone of a cottage hut ;

For calm and gentle is his mien ;
And in this dell you see

Like a dead boy he is serene.
A thing no storm can e'er destroy,
The shadow of a Danish boy.*

In clouds above, the lark is heard,
But drops not here to earth for rest : OR, THE STAR AND THE GLOW-WORM.

A PILGRIM, when the summer day These stanzas were designed to introduce a Had closed upon his weary way, ballad upon the story of a Danish prince who A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof; had Aed from battle, and for the sake of the But him the haughty warder spurned ; valuables about him, was murdered by the And from the gate the pilgrim turned. inhabitant of a cottage in which he had taken refuge. The house fell under a curse, and the To seek such covert as the field spirit of the youth, it was believed, haunted the Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield, valley where the crime had been committed. Or lofty wood, shower-proof.

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