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On which it stood; great changes have been
wrought In all the neighbourhood;—yet the Oak is
left That grew beside their door; and the remains Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.
TO THE DAISY.
Is youth from rock to rock I went,'
Most pleas'd when most uneasy;
Of thee, sweet Daisy!
When soothed a while by milder airs,
Spring cannot shun thee;
When rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a mnrrice-train, Thou greetst the Traveller in the lane; If welcom'd once thou countst it gain;
Thou art not daunted, Nor car'st if thou be set at naught: 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 chuse;
Proud he the Rose, with rains and dews
Her head impearling;
The Poet's darling.
If to a rock from rains he fly,
Ncnr the green holly.
A hundred times, by rock or bower.
Some steady love; some brief delight;
If stately passions in me burn.
And one chance look to Thee should turn.
I drink out of an humbler urn
A lowlier pleasure;
Of hearts at leisure.
When, smitten by the morning-ray,
I see thee rise alert and gay.
Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play
With kindred gladness:
Of careful sadness.
And all day long I number yet.
To thee am owing;
Nor whither going.
Child of the Year! that round dost run
As morning Leveret,
Art Nature's Favorite.
With little here to do or see
Of things that in the great world be.
Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee,
For thou art worthy.
Which Love makes for thee!
Oft do I sit by thee at case.
And weave a web of similies.
Loose types of Things through all degrees.
Thoughts of thy raising:
While I am gazing,
A Nun demure, of lowly port,
Or uprightly Maiden, of Love's Court,
In thy simplicity the sport
Of all temptations;
A little Cyclops, with one eye
Staring to threaten and defy,
That thought comes next—and instantly
The freak is over,
In fight to cover.
I see thee glittering from afar;—
In heaven above tliec!
Who shall reprove thee!
Sweet Flower! for by that name at last,
Sweet silent Creature!
Of thy meek nature!
Bsisiit Flower, whose home is every where!
* nlgrim bold in Nature's care.
And all the long year through the heir
Of joy or sorrow, ■ Mrthinks that there abides in thee TM;me concord with humanity, <"ven to no other Flower I see
The forest thorough!
'» it that Man is soon deprest?
* thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest, "oe« little on his memory rest.
Of on his reason; A"«J Thou wouldst teach him how to find
* welter under every wind,
A "ope for times that are unkind
Thnii wanderesl the wide world about, inrhcrk'd by pride or scrupulous doubt, "ith friends to greet thee, or without. Vet pleased and willing;
Meek, yielding to the occasion's coll,
Swekt Flower, belike one day to have
A place upon thy Poet's grave,
I welcome thee once more:
But He, who was on land, at sea,
My Brother, too, in loving thee,
Although he loved more silently,
Sleeps by his native shore.
Ah! hopeful, hopeful was the day
And full of hope day followed day
While that stout Ship at anchor lay
Beside the shores of Wight;
The May had then made all things green.
And, floating there in pomp serene,
That Ship was goodly to be seen
His pride and his delight!
Yet then, when called ashore, he sought
The tender peace of rural thought;
In more than happy mood
To your abodes, bright Daisy-flowers!
He then would steal at leisure-hours
And loved you glittering in your bowers,
A starry multitude.
But hark the word!—the Ship is gone;—
Ill-fated Vessel [—ghastly shock!—
At length delivered from the rock
The deep she hath regained;
And through the stormy night they steer.
Labouring for life, in hope and fear,
Towards a safer shore—how near.
Yet not to be attained!
Silence ! the brave Commander cried;
Six weeks beneath the moving sea
Vain service! yet not vainly done
That neighbourhood of grove nnd field
TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.
Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies,
Eyes of some men travel far
Modest, yet withal an Elf
Ere a leaf is on a bush,
Poets, vain men in their mood •
Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Ill befal the yellow Flowers,
Prophet of delight and mirth,
Pi.eisirks newly found are sweet
When they lie nbout our feet:
February last my heart
First at sight of thee wag glad;
All unheard of as thou art,
Thou miiBt needs, I think, have had.
Celandine! and long ago.
Praise of which I nothing know.
I hnvc not a doubt but he,
Soon as gentle breezes bring
AH about with full-blown flower*, Thick a* sheep in shepherd's fold! With the proudest Thou art there, Mantling in the tiny square.
Often have I- sighed to measure
Blithe of heart, from week to week
Thou art not beyond the moon,
THE WANDERING JEWS SONG.
TnoucH the torrents from their fountains
Though, as if with eagle-pinion,
If en windy days the Raven
Though the Sea-horse in the Ocean
D*y and night my toils redouble!
TO MY ISFANT DAUGHTER,
On being reminded that she was a month old, on that day.
Hist thou then survived,
Mild offspring of infirm humanity.
hast; Already hast survived that great decay; That transformation through the wide earth
felt,' And by all nations. Tn that Being's sight From whom the Race of human kind proceed, A thousand years are but as yesterday; And one day's nnrrow circuit is to him No less capacious than n thousand years. But what is time? What outward glory?
neither A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend Through heaven's eternal year.—Yet hail
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 mind 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 tic Of naked instinct, wound about the heart. Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours! Even now, to solemnize thy helpless state, And to enliven in the mind's regard Thy passing 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
n world By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed. Apt likeness bears to hers through gathered
clouds Moving untouched in silver purity, And cheering nfttimes their reluctant gloom. Fair arc ye both, and both are free from stain:
But thou, how leisurely thou fills! thy horn
is thine; Thou travell'st so contentedly, and slerpst In such a heedless peace. Alas! full soon Hath this conception grateful to behold, Changed countenance, like an object sullied
o'er By breathing mist; and thine appears to be A mournful labour, while to her is given Hope—and a renovation without end, —That smile forbids the thought;—for on
thy face Smiles are beginning, like the beamB of dawn, To shoot, and circulate;—smiles have there
been seen,— Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers Thy loneliness;—or shall those smiles be
railed Feelers of love,—put forth as if to explore This untried world, and to prepare thy way Through a strait passage intricate and dim? Such are they,—and the same are tokens,
signs, Which, when the appointed season hath
arrived, Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt; And Reason's godjlikePowcr be proud to own.
THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING
That way look, my Infant, lo!
With a tiger-leap halfway
Now she meets the coming prey.
Lets it go as fast, and then
11 Uk it in her power again:
Now she works with three or four.
Like an Indian Conjuror;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics played in the rye
Of a thousand Stnnders-by,
Clapping bands 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 or me, Other Play-mate can I sec. Of the countless living things, That with stir of feet and wings. (In the sun or under shade Upon hough 01 grassy blade) And with busy revcllings, Chirp and song, and murmuring*. 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 Travell'd 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 hlest as bird could be. Feeding in the apple-tree; Made such wanton spoil and rout. Turning blossoms inside out. Hung with head towards the ground. Flutter'd, perrh'd, 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 it's prime. They are sober'd by this time If you look to vale or hill. If you listen, all is still. Save a little neighbouring Rill; That from out the rocky ground Strikes a solitary sound. Vainly glitters hill and plain. And the air is calm in vain; Vainly Morning spreads the lure Of a sky serene and pure;