Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly, unassuming Spirit! Careless of thy neighbourhood, Thou dost shew 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!

Prophet of delight and mirth,

Scorned and slighted upon earth!

Herald of a mighty band,

Of a joyous train ensuing,

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!

VII.

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,

Celandine! 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;
Rear who will a pyramid;

Praise it is enough for me,
If there be but three or four
Who will love my little Flower.

VIII.

THE WATERFALL AND THE 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 low,
Was living, as a child might know,
In an unhappy home.