Графични страници
PDF файл

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.

1.

Is youth from rock to rock I went,'
From hill to hill, in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,

Most pleas'd when most uneasy;
But now my own delights I make,—
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And gladly Nature's love partake

Of thee, sweet Daisy!

When soothed a while by milder airs,
Thee Winter in the garland wears
That thinly shades his few gray hairs;

Spring cannot shun thee;
Whole summer-fields are thine by right;
And Autumn, melancholy wight!
Doth in thy crimson head delight

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;
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
Yet hast not gone without thy fame;
Thou art indeed by many a claim

The Poet's darling.

If to a rock from rains he fly,
Or, some bright day of April-sky,
Imprison'd by hoi sunshine lie

Ncnr the green holly.
And wearily at length should fare;
He need but look about, and there
Thou art! - a Friend at hand, to scare

His melancholy.

A hundred times, by rock or bower.
Ere thus I have lain couch'd an hour,
Have I derived from thy sweet power
Some apprehension;

Some steady love; some brief delight;
Some memory that had taken Might;
Some chime of fancy wrong or right;
Or stray invention.

If stately passions in me burn.

And one chance look to Thee should turn.

I drink out of an humbler urn

A lowlier pleasure;
The homely sympathy that heeds
The common life, our nature breeds;
A wisdom fitted to the needs

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:
And when, at dusk, by dews opprcst
Thou sinkst, 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 course, bold lover of the sun.
And cheerful when the day's begun

As morning Leveret,
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;
Dear shalt thou be to future men
As in old time ;—thou not in vain

Art Nature's Favorite.

II.

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.
Thou unassuming Common-place
Of Nature, with that homely face.
And yet with something of a grace,

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:
And many a fond and idle name
I give to thee, for praise or blame.
As is the humour of the game,

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 Queen in crown of rubies drest,
A Starveling: in a scanty vest.
Are all, as seem 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, gome 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 tliec!
Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Self-poised in air thou seemst to rest;—
May peace come never to bis nest,

Who shall reprove thee!

Sweet Flower! for by that name at last,
When all my reveries are past,
I rail thee, and to that cleave fast,

Sweet silent Creature!
1'liat brcath'st with me in sun and air,
Wo thou, as thou art wont, repair
My heart with gladness, and a share

Of thy meek nature!

III.

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
And every season?

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,
And all things suffering from all,
Thy function apostolical
In peace fulfilling.

IV.

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
When to that Ship be bent his way
To govern and to guide:
His wish was gained: a little time
Would bring him back in manhood's prime,
And free for life, these hills to climb
With all his wants supplied.

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;—
From her long course returns:—anon
Sets sail:—in season due
Once more on English earth they stand:
But, when a third time from the land
They parted, sorrow was at band
For Him and for his Crew.

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;
To that calm word a shriek replied,
It was the last death-shriek.
—A few appear by morning-light.
Preserved upon the tall mast's height;
Oft in my soul I see that sight;
But one dear remnant of the night-
Far him in vain I seek.

Six weeks beneath the moving sea
He lay in slumber quietly;
Unforced by wind or wave
To quit the Ship for whirh he died,
(All claims of duty satisfied)
And there they found him at her side;
And bore him to the grave. .

Vain service! yet not vainly done
For this, if other end were none,
That he, who had been cast
Upon a way of life unmeet
For such a gentle soul and sweet,
Should find sin undisturbed retreat
Near what he loved, at last;

That neighbourhood of grove nnd field
To Him a resting-place should yield,
A meek man and a brave!
The birds shall sing nnd ocean make
A mournful murmur for his snkc;
And Thou, sweet Flower,shalt sleep and wake
Upon his senseless grave!

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.
I.

Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there's a sun that sets
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are Violets,
They will have a place in story:
There's a flower that shall be mine,
'Tis the little Celandine.

Eyes of some men travel far
For the finding of a star;
Up and down the heavens they go.
Men that keep a mighty rout!
I'm as great as they, I trow,
Since the day I found thee out,
Little flower!—I'll make a stir
Like n great Astronomer.

Modest, yet withal an Elf
Bold, and lavish of thyself,
Since we needs must first have met
I have seen thee, high and low,
Thirty years or more, and yet
'Twas a face I did not know;
Thou hast now, go where I may,
Fifty greetings in a day.

Ere a leaf is on a bush,
In the time before the Trush
Has a thought about it's nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call.
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless Prodigal;
Telling talcs about the sun,
When we've little warmths or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood •
Travel with the multitude;
Never heed them; I aver
That they all are wanton Woocra;
But the thrifty Cottager,
Who stirs little out of doors,
Joys to spy thee near her home.
Spring is coming, Thou art come!

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 befal the yellow Flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will sec or no;
Others, too, of lofty mien;
They have done ns worldlings do.
Taken praise that should be thine.
Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth,
Scorn'd and slighted upon earth!
Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,
Singing at my heart's command.
In the lanes iny thoughts pursuing,
I will sing, ns doth behove.
Hymns in praise of what I love!

II.

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,
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.
Slicking 'kerchief-plots of mold

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
By myself a lonely plensure,
Sighed to think, 1 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,
Slipet into thy shclter'd hold;
Bright as any of the train
When ye all are out again.

Thou art not beyond the moon,
But B thing beneath our shoon;
Let, as old Magellan did,
Others roam about the sea;
Build who will a pyramid;
Praise it is enough for me.
If there be but three or four
Who will love my little Flower.

THE WANDERING JEWS SONG.

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

Though, as if with eagle-pinion,
O'er the rocks the Chamois roam,
Vet he has some small dominion
Where he feels himself at home.

If en windy days the Raven
(jsmbnl like a dancing skiff,
Not the less he loves his haven
In the bosom of the cliff.

Though the Sea-horse in the Ocean
Own no dear domestic cave;
Vet he slumbers without motion
On the calm and silent wave.

D*y and night my toils redouble!
Never nearer to the goal;
Never—never does the trouble
Of the Wanderer leave my soul.

ADDRESS

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.
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. 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
With brightness!—leaving her to post along
And range about—disquieted in rhange,
And still impatient of the shape she wears.
Onee up, once down the hill, one journey,

Babe,
That will suffice thee; and it seems that now
Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task

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
LEAVES.

That way look, my Infant, lo!
Whnt a pretty baby-show!
See the Kitten on the Wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall,
Wither'd 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 convey'd
Sylph or Faery hither tending,—
To this lower world descending.
Each invisible and mute.
In his wavering parachute.
But the Kitten, how she starts.
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!
First at one and then it's fellow
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now—now one—
Mow they stop; and there are none—
What intensencss of desire
In her upward eye of fire!

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;

« ПредишнаНапред »