97

ART thou the bird whom Man loves best,
The pious bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English Robin;

The bird that comes about our doors
When Autumn-winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,

And Russia far inland?

The bird, that by some name or other
All men who know thee call their brother,
The darling of children and men?
Could Father Adam open his eyes
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.
-If the Butterfly knew but his friend,
Hither his flight he would bend;
And find his way to me,

Under the branches of the tree:
In and out, he darts about;

Can this be the bird, to man so good,
That, after their bewildering,

Covered with leaves the little children,

So painfully in the wood?

What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st

pursue

A beautiful creature,

That is gentle by nature?
Beneath the summer sky

From flower to flower let him fly;

'Tis all that he wishes to do.

The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness,
He is the friend of our summer gladness:
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the sunny weather,
And fly about in the air together!
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
A crimson as bright as thine own:
Would'st thou be happy in thy nest,
O pious Bird! whom man loves best,
Love him, or leave him alone!

1806.

XIV.

WHO fancied what a pretty sight
This rock would be if edged around
With living snow-drops? circlet bright!
How glorious to this orchard-ground!
Who loved the little Rock, and set
Upon its head this coronet?
Was it the humour of a child?
Or rather of some gentle maid,

XVI.

SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL. FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES OF WESTMORELAND. SWIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel! Night has brought the welcome hour When the weary fingers feel

Help, as if from faery power;

Dewy night o'ershades the ground;

Turn the swift wheel round and round!

G

Now, beneath the starry sky,
Couch the widely-scattered sheep ;-
Ply the pleasant labour, ply!
For the spindle, while they sleep,
Runs with speed more smooth and fine,
Gathering up a trustier line.
Short-lived likings may be bred
By a glance from fickle eyes;
But true love is like the thread
Which the kindly wool supplies,
When the flocks are all at rest
Sleeping on the mountain's breast.

1812.

HINT

XVII.

FROM THE MOUNTAINS FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS.

"WHO but hails the sight with pleasure
When the wings of genius rise
Their ability to measure

With great enterprise;
But in man was ne'er such daring
As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing
His brave spirit with the war in

The stormy skies!

Mark him, how his power he uses,
Lays it by, at will resumes!
Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses

Clouds and utter glooms!
There, he wheels in downward mazes;
Sunward now his flight he raises,
Catches fire, as seems, and blazes
With uninjured plumes!"-

ANSWER.

"Stranger, 'tis no act of courage
Which aloft thou dost discern;
No bold bird gone forth to forage

'Mid the tempest stern;
But such mockery as the nations
See, when public perturbations
Lift men from their native stations,

Like yon TUFT OF FERN;
Such it is; the aspiring creature
Soaring on undaunted wing,
(So you fancied) is by nature

A dull helpless thing,

Dry and withered, light and yellow;-
That to be the tempest's fellow!
Wait-and you shall see how hollow
Its endeavouring!"

1817.

XVIII.

ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP.

THE WORK OF E. M. S.

FROWNS are on every Muse's face,
Reproaches from their lips are sent,
That mimicry should thus disgrace
The noble Instrument.

A very Harp in all but size!
Needles for strings in apt gradation!
Minerva's self would stigmatize

The unclassic profanation.

Even her own needle that subdued
Arachne's rival spirit,

Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood,
Such honour could not merit.

And this, too, from the Laureate's Child,
A living lord of melody!

How will her Sire be reconciled
To the refined indignity?

I spake, when whispered a low voice,
Bard! moderate your ire;
Spirits of all degrees rejoice

In

presence of the lyre.

The Minstrels of Pygmean bands,
Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays,
Have shells to fit their tiny hands
And suit their slender lays

Some, still more delicate of ear,

Have lutes (believe my words) Whose framework is of gossamer,

While sunbeams are the chords. Gay Sylphs this miniature will court,

Made vocal by their brushing wings,
And sullen Gnomes will learn to sport
Around its polished strings;
Whence strains to love-sick maiden dear,
While in her lonely bower she tries
To cheat the thought she cannot cheer,
By fanciful embroideries.

Trust, angry Bard! a knowing Sprite,
Nor think the Harp her lot deplores;
Though'mid the stars the Lyre shine bright,
Love stoops as fondly as he soars."

1827.

XIX.

TO A LADY,

IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD
WRITE HER A POEM UPON SOME DRAWINGS
THAT SHE HAD MADE OF FLOWERS IN THE
ISLAND OF MADEIRA.

FAIR Lady! can I sing of flowers
That in Madeira bloom and fade,

I who ne'er sate within their bowers,

Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed? How they in sprightly dance are worn By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen, Or holy festal pomps adorn,

These eyes have never seen.

Yet tho' to me the pencil's art

No like remembrances can give,
Your portraits still may reach the heart
And there for gentle pleasure live;
While Fancy ranging with free scope
Shall on some lovely Alien set
A name with us endeared to hope,
To peace, or fond regret.

Still as we look with nicer care,

Some new resemblance we may trace:
A Heart's-ease will perhaps be there,
A Speedwell may not want its place.
And so may we, with charmèd mind
Beholding what your skill has wrought,
Another Star-of-Bethlehem find,
A new Forget-me-not.

"

Nor ever was a cloudless sky
So steady or so fair.

The lovely Danish Boy is blest
And happy in his flowery cove:

From bloody deeds his thoughts are far;
And yet he warbles songs of war,
That seem like songs of love,
For calm and gentle is his mien ;
Like a dead Boy he is serene.
1799.

XXIII. SONG

FOR THE WANDERING JEW.

THOUGH the torrents from their fountains
Roar down many a craggy steep,
Yet they find among the mountains
Resting-places calm and deep.

Clouds that love through air to hasten,
Ere the storm its fury stills,
Helmet-like themselves will fasten
On the heads of towering hills.
What, if through the frozen centre
Of the Alps the Chamois bound,
Yet he has a home to enter
In some nook of chosen ground:
And the Sea-horse, though the ocean
Yield him no domestic cave,
Slumbers without sense of motion,
Couched upon the rocking wave.
If on windy days the Raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,
Not the less she loves her haven
In the bosom of the cliff.

The fleet Ostrich, till day closes,
Vagrant over desert sands,
Brooding on her eggs reposes
When chill night that care demands.
Day and night my toils redouble,
Never nearer to the goal;

Night and day, I feel the trouble
Of the Wanderer in my soul.
1800.

XXIV.

STRAY PLEASURES.

-Pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find."

By their floating mill,

That lies dead and still,

Behold yon Prisoners three,

The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames !

The platform is small, but gives room for them all;

And they're dancing merrily.

From the shore come the notes
To their mill where it floats,

To their house and their mill tethered fast:
To the small wooden isle where, their work to
beguile,

They from morning to even take whatever is given ;--

And many a blithe day they have past.

In sight of the spires,
All alive with the fires

Of the sun going down to his rest,

In the broad open eye of the solitary sky, They dance, there are three, as jocund as free, While they dance on the calm river's breast. Man and Maidens wheel,

They themselves make the reel, And their music's a prey which they seize; It plays not for them,-what matter? 'tis theirs; And if they had care, it has scattered their cares, While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please! They dance not for me,

Yet mine is their glee!

Thus pleasure is spread through the earth In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find;

Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.

The showers of the spring

Rouse the birds, and they sing; If the wind do but stir for his proper delight, Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss: Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother;

They are happy, for that is their right! 1806.

XXV.

THE PILGRIM'S DREAM;

OR, THE STAR AND THE GLOW-WORM.
A PILGRIM, when the summer day
Had closed upon his weary way,
A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof;
But him the haughty Warder spurned;
And from the gate the Pilgrim turned,
To seek such covert as the field

Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield,
Or lofty wood, shower-proof.

He paced along; and, pensively,
Halting beneath a shady tree,

Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch

or seat,

Fixed on a Star his upward eye;

Then, from the tenant of the sky

He turned, and watched with kindred look,
A Glow-worm, in a dusky nook,
Apparent at his feet.

The murmur of a neighbouring stream,
Induced a soft and slumbrous dream,
Apregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds
He recognised the earth-born Star,
And That which glittered from afar;
And (strange to witness!) from the frame
Of the ethereal Orb, there came
Intelligible sounds.

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 of 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;
And, till life's journey closed, the spot
Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared,
Where by that dream he had been cheered
Beneath the shady tree.
1818.

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 murmuring 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,

1830.

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-
That coo again!-'tis not to chide,
I feel, but to inspire.

XXVII.

A WREN'S NEST.

AMONG the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,

Is none that with the little Wren's
In snugness 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 warm, 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
An opportune recess,

The hermit has no finer eye

For shadowy quietness.

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.
Concealed from friends who might disturb
Thy quiet with no ill intent,

Secure from evil eyes and hands

On barbarous plunder bent,