IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF

IT is not to be thought of that the Flood

Of British freedom,which, to the open sea

Of the world's praise, from dark an tiquity

Hath flowed, "with pomp of waters, unwithstood,"

Roused though it be full often to a mood Which spurns the check of salutary bands,

That this most famous stream in bogs and sands

Should perish; and to evil and to good Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung Armory of the invincible Knights of old:

We must be free or die, who speak the tongue

That Shakspeare spake; the faith and morals hold

Which Milton held.-In everything we are sprung

Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifold. 1802 or 1803. April 16, 1803.

WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN
MEMORY

WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed

Great Nations, how ennobling thoughts

depart

When men change swords for ledgers, and desert

The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed

I had, my Country!-am I to be blamed?

Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art,

Verily, in the bottom of my heart,
Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed.
For dearly must we prize thee; we who
find

In thee a bulwark for the cause of men:
And I by my affection was beguiled:
What wonder if a Poet now and then,
Among the many movements of his
mind,

Felt for thee as a lover or a child! 1802 or 1803. Sept. 17, 1803.

TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE

SIX YEARS OLD

O THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought;

Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,

And fittest to unutterable thought The breeze-like motion and the selfborn carol:

Thou faery voyager! that dost float
In such clear water, that thy boat
May rather seem

To brood on air than on an earthly stream;

Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;

O blessed vision! happy child!
Thou art so exquisitely wild,

I think of thee with many fears
For what may be thy lot in future years.
I thought of times when Pain might
be thy guest,

Lord of thy house and hospitality ;
And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest
But when she sate within the touch of

thee.

O too industrious folly!

O vain and causeless melancholy!
Nature will either end thee quite;
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
Preserve for thee, by individual right,
A young lamb's heart among the full-
grown flocks.

What hast thou to do with sorrow,
Or the injuries of to-morrow?
Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn
brings forth,

Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks,
Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;
A gem that glitters while it lives,
And no forewarning gives;

But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife

Slips in a moment out of life.

1802. 1807.

TO THE DAISY

IN youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,

Most pleased when most uneasy;
But now my own delights I make,-
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And gladly Nature's love partake,
Of Thee, sweet Daisy !

Thee Winter in the garland wears
That thinly decks his few gray hairs;
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,
That she may sun thee;
Whole Summer-fields are thine by right;
And Autumn, melancholy Wight!
Doth in thy crimson head delight
When rains are on thee.

In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane;

Pleased at his greeting thee again ;

Yet nothing daunted,

Nor grieved if thou be set at nought:
And oft alone in nooks remote

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
When such are wanted.

Be violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;
Proud be the rose, with rains and dews
Her head impearling:

Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
Yet hast not gone without thy fame;
Thou art indeed by many a claim

The Poet's darling.

If to a rock from rains he fly,
Or, some bright day of April sky,
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.

A hundred times, by rock or bower,
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,
Have I derived from thy sweet power

Some apprehension;

Some steady love; some brief delight; Some memory that had taken flight; Some chime of fancy wrong or right;

Or stray invention.

A little cyclops, with one eye
Staring to threaten and defy,
That thought comes next-and instantly
The freak is over,

The shape will vanish-and behold
A silver shield with boss of gold,
That spreads itself, some faery bold
In fight to cover!

I see thee glittering from afar-
And then thou art a pretty star;
Not quite so fair as many are

In heaven above thee!
Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ;-
May peace come never to his nest,

Who shall reprove thee!

See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honors formerly paid to this flower. (Wordsworth.)

BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed

Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread

Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat!

And birds and flowers once more to greet,

My last year's friends together.

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,
Presiding Spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May;

And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,

Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers.
Art sole in thy employment:
A Life, a Presence like the Air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with any one to pair;

Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstasies,

Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.

YEW-TREES

1803

There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,
(Not three weeks past the Stripling
died,)

Lies gathered to his Father's side,
Soul-moving sight!

Yet one to which is not denied
Some sad delight:

For he is safe, a quiet bed
Hath early found among the dead,
Harbored where none can be misled,
Wronged, or distrest;

And surely here it may be said
That such are blest.

And oh for Thee, by pitying grace
Checked oft-times in a devious race,
May He who halloweth the place
Where Man is laid
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace
For which it prayed!

Sighing I turned away; but ere
Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear,
Music that sorrow comes not near,
A ritual hymn,

Chanted in love that casts out fear
By Seraphim.

1803. 1845.

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL

AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND

This delightful creature and her demeanor are particularly described in my Sister's Journal. (Wordsworth.)

SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these gray rocks; that household
lawn;

Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn
This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake;
This little bay; a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy Abode-
In truth together do ye seem
Like something fashioned in a dream;
Such Forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep!
But, O fair Creature! in the light
Of common day, so heavenly bright,
I bless Thee, Vision as thou art
I bless thee with a human heart;
God shield thee to thy latest years!
Thee neither know I, nor thy peers;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.