Then, cheerful flower, my spirits play
With kindred gladness ;
And when at dusk by dews opprest
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.

And all day long I number yet,
All seasons through, another debt,
Which I, wherever thou art met,
To thee am owing-

An instinct call it, a blind sense,
A happy, genial influence,

Coming one knows not how nor whence,
Nor whither going.

Child of the year, that round dost run
Thy pleasant course, when day 's begun
As ready to salute the sun

As lark or leveret,

Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain,
Nor be less dear to future men

Than in old time; thou not in vain

Art Nature's favourite.

TO THE SAME FLOWER.

WITH little here to do or see

Of things that in the great world be,
Daisy, again 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 in 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 temptations ;

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 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,

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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!

Bright flower! for by that name at last,
When all my reveries are past,

I call thee, and to that cleave fast!
Sweet silent creature,

That breath'st with me in sun and air,
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
My heart with gladness and a share
Of thy meek nature!

TO THE DAISY.

BRIGHT Flower, whose home is everywhere,
Bold in maternal Nature's care,

And all the long year through the heir

Of joy or sorrow!

Methinks that there abides in thee

Some concord with humanity,

Given to no other flower I see
The forest thorough.

Is it that man is soon deprest―

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

Or on his reason?

And thou wouldst teach him how to find

A shelter under every wind,

A hope for times that are unkind

And every season?

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Thou wander'st the wide world about,
Unchecked by pride or scrupulous doubt,
With friends to greet thee or without,

Yet pleased and willing;

Meek, yielding to the occasion's call,
And all things suffering from all,
Thy function apostolical

In peace fulfilling.

THE GREEN LINNET.

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;

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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.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
A brother of the dancing leaves,
Then flits and from the cottage-eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes;

As if by that exulting strain

He mocked and treated with disdain
The voiceless form he chose to feign
While fluttering in the bushes.

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL

(AT INVERSNAID, UPON LOCH LOMOND).

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,

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