Much did it taunt the humble Light

That now, when day was fled, and night
Hushed the dark earth, fast closing weary eyes,

A very reptile could presume
To show her taper in the gloom,
As if in rivalship with One
Who sate a ruler on his throne
Erected in the skies.

"Exalted Star!" the Worm replied,
"Abate this unbecoming pride,
Or with a less uneasy lustre shine;
Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays
Are mastered by the breathing haze;
While neither mist, nor thickest cloud
That shapes in heaven its murky shroud,
Hath power to injure mine.

But not for this do I aspire
To match the spark of local fire,
That at my will burns on the dewy lawn,
With thy acknowledged glories;—No!
Yet, thus upbraided, I may show
What favours do attend me here,
Till, like thyself, I disappear
Before the purple dawn."

When this in modest guise was said,
Across the welkin seemed to spread
A boding sound-for aught but sleep unfit!
Hills quaked, the rivers backward ran;
That Star, so proud or late, looked wan;
And reeled with visionary stir

In the blue depth, like Lucifer
Cast headlong to the pit!

Fire raged: and, when the spangled floor
Of ancient ether was no more,

New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth:
And all the happy Souls that rode
Transfigured through that fresh abode,
Had heretofore, in humble trust,
Shone meekly mid their native dust,
The Glow-worms of the earth!

This knowledge, from an Angel's voice
Proceeding, made the heart rejoice
Of Him who slept upon the open lea:
Waking at morn he murmured not;

He recognised the earth-born Star,

And That which glittered from afar;

And (strange to witness!) from the frame

Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared,

Where by that dream he had been cheered Beneath the shady tree.

1818

Of the ethereal Orb, there came

Intelligible sounds.

XXVI.

THE

POET AND THE CAGED TURTLEDOVE.

As often as I murmur here

My half-formed melodies,

Straight from her osier mansion near,

The Turtledove replies:
Though silent as a leaf before,
The captive promptly coos;
Is it to teach her own soft lore,
Or second my weak Muse?

I rather think, the gentle Dove
Is marmuring a reproof,
Displeased that I from lays of love
Have dared to keep aloof;
That I, a Bard of hill and dale,
Have caroll'd, fancy free,
As if nor dove nor nightingale,
Had heart or voice for me.

If such thy meaning, O forbear,

Sweet Bird! to do me wrong; Love, blessed Love, is every where The spirit of my song:

Mid grove, and by the calm fireside, Love animates my lyre

Tas coo again!-'t is not to chide, I feel, but to inspire.

XXVII.

A WREN'S NEST.

As the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,
Is note that with the little Wren's

In mugness may compare.
No door the tenement requires,
And seldom needs a laboured roof;
Yet is it to the fiercest sun
Impervious, and storm-proof.

So warto, so beautiful withal, In perfect fitness for its aim, That to the Kind by special grace Their instinct surely came. And when for their abodes they seek Aa opportune recess, Thermut has no finer eye For shadowy quietness.

830.

These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls, A canopy in some still nook; Others are pent-housed by a brae That overhangs a brook.

There to the brooding bird her mate
Warbles by fits his low clear song ;
And by the busy streamlet both
Are sung to all day long.

Or in sequestered lanes they build,
Where, till the flitting bird's return,
Her eggs within the nest repose,
Like relics in an urn.

But still, where general choice is good,
There is a better and a best ;
And, among fairest objects, some
Are fairer than the rest;

This, one of those small builders proved In a green covert, where, from out The forehead of a pollard oak,

The leafy antlers sprout;

For She who planned the mossy lodge,
Mistrusting her evasive skill,
Had to a Primrose looked for aid
Her wishes to fulfil.

High on the trunk's projecting brow,
And fixed an infant's span above
The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest
The prettiest of the grove!

The treasure proudly did I show

To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things; but once

Looked up for it in vain :

'Tis gone-a ruthless spoiler's prey,

Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 'Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved Indignant at the wrong.

Just three days after, passing by

In clearer light the moss-built cell I saw, espied its shaded mouth; And felt that all was well.

The Primrose for a veil had spread
The largest of her upright leaves;
And thus, for purposes benign,
A simple flower deceives.

You call it," Love lies bleeding,"- -so you may,
Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops,
As we have seen it here from day to day,
From month to month, life passing not away:
A flower how rich in sadness! Even thus stoops,
(Sentient by Grecian sculpture's marvellous power)
Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent
Earthward in uncomplaining languishment,
The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower!
('Tis Fancy guides me willing to be led,
Though by a slender thread,)

So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew

Of his death-wound, when he from innocent air
The gentlest breath of resignation drew;
While Venus in a passion of despair
Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair
Spangled with drops of that celestial shower.
She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do ;
But pangs more lasting far, that Lover knew
Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some lone

bower

Did press this semblance of unpitied smart
Into the service of his constant heart,

His own dejection, downcast Flower! could share With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear.

XXIX.

COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING.

NEVER enlivened with the liveliest ray
That fosters growth or checks or cheers decay,
Nor by the heaviest rain-drops more deprest,
This Flower, that first appeared as summer's guest,

Preserves her beauty mid autumnal leaves
And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves.
When files of stateliest plants have ceased to bloom,
One after one submitting to their doom,
When her coevals each and all are fled,
What keeps her thus reclined upon her lonesome
bed ?

The old mythologists, more impress'd than we Of this late day by character in tree Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy, Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear, Or with the language of the viewless air By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause To solve the mystery, not in Nature's laws But in Man's fortunes. Hence a thousand tales Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales. Nor doubt that something of their spirit swayed The fancy-stricken Youth or heart-sick Maid, Who, while each stood companionless and eyed This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed, Thought of a wound which death is slow to cure, A fate that has endured and will endure, And, patience coveting yet passion feeding, Called the dejected Lingerer, Love lies bleeding.

See the Kitten on the wall,

Sporting with the leaves that fall,

Withered leaves one-two-and three-
From the lofty elder-tree !
Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink
Softly, slowly: one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph ar Faery hither tending,-
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,

It has 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 now-now one-
Now they stop and there are none:
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-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 conjurer;
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!

'Tis a pretty baby-treat; Nor, I deem, for me unmeet: Here, for neither Babe nor me, Other play-mate 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, Who was blest as bird could be, Feeding in the apple-tree; Made such wanton spoil and rout, Turning blossoms inside out ; Hung-head pointing towards the groundFluttered, perched, into a round Bound himself, and then unbound; Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin ! Prettiest Tumbler ever seen! Light of heart and light of limb; 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,

K

If you listen, all is still,
Save a little neighbouring rill,
That from out the rocky ground
Strikes a solitary sound.
Vainly glitter 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 sign of joy :
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near?
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter even than gaiety?

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 gladsomeness.
-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 wrought,
Matter for a jocund thought,
Spite of care, and spite of grief,
To gambol with Life's falling Leaf.

XXXII.

ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER,

DORA,

ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD THAT DAY, SEPTEMBER 16.

-HAST thou then survived

Mild Offspring of infirm humanity,
Meek Infant! among all forlornest things
The most forlorn-one life of that bright star,
The second glory of the Heavens -Thou hast ;
Already hast survived that great decay,
That transformation through the wide earth felt,
And by all nations. In that Being's sight
From whom the Race of human kind proceed,
A thousand years are but as yesterday;
And one day's narrow circuit is to Him
Not less capacious than a thousand years.

But what is time? What outward glory? neither
A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend
Through 'heaven's eternal year.'-Yethail to Thee,
Frail, feeble, Monthling!-by that name, methinks,
Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out
Not idly.-Hadst thou been of Indian birth,
Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves,
And rudely canopied by leafy boughs,
Or to the churlish elements exposed

On the blank plains, the coldness of the night,
Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face
Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned,
Would, with imperious admonition, then
Have scored thine age, and punctually timed
Thine infant history, on the minds of those
Who might have wandered with thee.-Mother's
love,

Nor less than mother's love in other breasts,
Will, among us warm-clad and warmly housed,
Do for thee what the finger of the heavens
Doth all too often harshly execute
For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds
Where fancy hath small liberty to grace
The affections, to exalt them or refine;
And the maternal sympathy itself,
Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie
Of naked instinct, wound about the heart.
Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours!
Even now-to solemnise thy helpless state,
And to enliven in the mind's regard
Thy passive beauty-parallels have risen,
Resemblances, or contrasts, that connect,
Within the region of a father's thoughts,
Thee and thy mate and sister of the sky.
And first; thy sinless progress, through a world
By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed,
Apt likeness bears to hers, through gathered clouds,