Of the lofty daffodil

Make your bed, or make your bower;
Fill your lap, and fill your bosom ;
Only spare the strawberry-blossom!

Primroses, the Spring may love them,
Summer knows but little of them;
Violets, a barren kind,

Withered on the ground must lie

Daisies leave no fruit behind

When the pretty flowerets die ;
Pluck them, and another year
As many will be blowing here.

;

God has given a kindlier power
To the favored strawberry-flower.
Hither soon as Spring is fled
You and Charles and I will walk ;

Lurking berries, ripe and red,

Then will hang on every stalk,

Each within its leafy bower;

And for that promise spare the flower!

1802.

V.

CHARACTERISTICS OF A CHILD THREE YEARS OLD.

LOVING she is, and tractable, though wild;
And Innocence hath privilege in her

To dignify arch looks and laughing eyes;
And feats of cunning; and the pretty round
Of trespasses, affected to provoke
Mock-chastisement and partnership in play.
And, as a fagot sparkles on the hearth

Not less if unattended and alone,

Than when both young and old sit gathered round

And take delight in its activity;

Even so this happy Creature of herself

Is all-sufficient; solitude to her

Is blithe society, who fills the air

With gladness and involuntary songs.
Light are her sallies as the tripping fawn's,
Forth-startled from the fern where she lay couched;
Unthought-of, unexpected, as the stir

Of the soft breeze ruffling the meadow-flowers,
Or from before it chasing wantonly
The many-colored images imprest
Upon the bosom of a placid lake.

He rides over the water, and over the snow,

does

Through wood, and through vale; and, o'er rocky height

Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;

He tosses about in every bare tree,

As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There's never a scholar in England knows.

He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
And ring a sharp 'larum ; but, if you should look,
There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow,
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;

-

Yet seek him, and what shall you find in the place?

Nothing but silence and empty space;

Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,

That he 's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves!

you

As soon as 't is daylight to-morrow, with me
You shall go to the orchard, and then
will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout,
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright

twig

That looked up at the sky so proud and big

All last summer, as well you know,

Studded with apples, a beautiful show!

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle:

But let him range round; he does us no harm. We build up the fire, we 're snug and warm; Untouched by his breath, see, the candle shines bright,

And burns with a clear and steady light;

Books have we to read, but that half-stifled knell, Alas; 't is the sound of the eight o'clock bell.

Come now we 'll to bed! and when we are there He may work his own will, and what shall we care?

He
may knock at the door,- we'll not let him in;
May drive at the windows, we'll laugh at his din;
Let him seek his own home wherever it be ;

Here's a cozie warm house for Edward and me.

VII.

THE MOTHER'S RETURN.

BY THE SAME.

A MONTH, Sweet Little-ones, is past

Since

your

dear Mother went away,

And she to-morrow will return;

To-morrow is the happy day.

--

1806.

O blessed tidings! thought of joy!
The eldest heard with steady glee;
Silent he stood; then laughed amain,·
And shouted, "Mother, come to me!"

Louder and louder did he shout,

With witless hope to bring her near;

66

Nay, patience! patience, little boy! Your tender mother cannot hear."

I told of hills, and far-off towns,
And long, long vales to travel through;
He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed,
But he submits; what can he do?

No strife disturbs his sister's breast;
She wars not with the mystery

Of time and distance, night and day;
The bonds of our humanity.

Her joy is like an instinct, joy
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly;
She dances, runs without an aim,
She chatters in her ecstasy.

Her brother now takes up the note,
And echoes back his sister's glee;
They hug the infant in my arms,
As if to force his sympathy.