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On which it stood; great changes have been | Some steady love ; some brief delight;


Some memory that had taken flight; In all the neighbourhood ;-yet the Oak is Some chime of fancy wrong or right; left

Or stray invention.
That grew beside their door; and the remains
Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head

roohood | 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.

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A Nun demure, of lowly port,

| Meek, yielding to the occasion's call,
Or sprightly Maiden, of Love's Court, And all things suffering from all,
In thy simplicity the sport

Thy function apostolical
Of all temptations ;

In peace fulfilling.
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,

Sweet Flower, belike one day to have That thought comes next-and instantly

A place upon thy Poet's grave,
The freak is over,

I welcome thee once more:
The shape will vanish, and behold!

But He, who was on land, at sea, A silver Shield with boss of gold,

My Brother, too, in loving thee, That spreads itself, some Faery bold

Although he loved more silently,

Sleeps by his native shore.
In fight to cover.

Ah! hopeful, hopeful was the day
I see thee glittering from afar;-

When to that Ship he bent his way And then thou art a pretty Star,

To govern and to guide:
Not quite so fair as many are

His wish was gained: a little time
In heaven above thee!

Would bring him back in manhood's prime,
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, And free for life, these hills to climb
Self-poised in air thou seemst to rest; With all his wants supplied.
May peace come never to his nest,
Who shall reprove thee!

And full of hope day followed day

While that stout Ship at anchor lay Sweet Flower! for by that name at last,

Beside the shores of Wight;

The May had then made all things green, When all my reveries are past,

And, floating there in pomp serene,
I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
Sweet silent Creature!

That Ship was goodly to be seen
That breath'st with me in sun and air,

His pride and his delight! Do thou, as thou art wont, repair

Yet then, when called ashore, he sought My heart with gladness, and a share

The tender peace of rural thought;
Of thy meek nature!

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;
Bright Flower, whose home is every where! From her long course returns :-anon
A Pilgriin bold in Nature's care,

Sets sail :- in season due And all the long year through the heir Once more on English earth they stand: Of joy or sorrow, !

But, when a third time from the land Methinks that there abides in thee

They parted, sorrow was at hand
Some concord with humanity,

For Him and for his Crew.
Given to no other Flower I see
The forest thorough!

Il-fated Vessel!-ghastly shock!

At length delivered from the rock Is it that Man is soon deprest?

The deep she hath regained; A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest,

And through the stormy night they steer,

Labouring for life, in hope and fear, Does little on his memory rest,

| Towards a safer shore-how near, Or on his reason; And Thou wouldst teach him how to find

Yet not to be attained ! A shelter under every wind,

Silence! the brave Commander cried ;
A hope for times that are unkind

To that calm word a shriek replied,
And every season ?

It was the last death-shriek.

-A few appear by morning-light, Thou wanderest the wide world about, Preserved upon the tall mast's height; l'ncheck d by pride or scrupulous doubt, oft in my soul I see that right; With friends to greet thee, or without, But one dear remnant of the nightYet pleased and willing;

For him in vain I seek.

Six weeks beneath the moving sea Poets, vain men in their mood! He lay in slumber quietly;

Travel with the multitude; Unforced by wind or wave

Never heed them; I aver To quit the Ship for which he died, That they all are wanton Wooers; (All claims of duty satisfied)

But the thrifty Cottager,
Ànd there they found him at her side ; Who stirs little out of doors,
And bore him to the grave. .

Joys to spy thee near her home,

Spring is coming, Thou art come!
Vain service! yet not vainly done
For this, if other end were none,

Comfort have thou of thy merit,
That he, who had been cast
Upon a way of life unmeet

Kindly, unassuming Spirit!

Careless of thy neighbourhood,
For such a gentle soul and sweet,
Should find an undisturbed retreat

Thou dost shew thy pleasant face Near what he loved, at last;

On the moor, and in the wood,

In the lane—there's not a place, That neighbourhood of grove and field

Howsoever mean it be,
To Him a resting-place should yield,

But 'tis good enough for thee.
A meek man and a brave!
The birds shall sing and ocean make III befal the yellow Flowers,
A mournful murmur for his sake;

Children of the flaring hours!
And Thou, sweet Flower,shalt sleep and wake Buttercups, that will be seen,
Upon his senseless grave!

Whether we will sce or no;
Others, too, of lofty mien;
They have done as 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, Pansies, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies,

Of a joyous train ensning, Let them live upon their praises ;

Singing at my heart's command, Long as there's a sun that sets

In the lanes my thoughts pursuing, Primroses will have their glory;

I will sing, as doth behove, Long as there are Violets,

Hymns in praise of what I love! They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine, 'Tis the little Celandine.

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An abont with full-blown flowers, Thick as 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 pleasure,
Sighed to think, I 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,
Slipst into thy shelter'd hold;
Bright as any of the train
When ye all are out again.

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. In that Being's sight From wbom the Race of human kind proceed, A thousand years are but as yesterday; And one day's narrow circuit is to him No 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.-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

Thou art not beyond the moon, But a 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.



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

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

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 wåndered 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 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

a world By sorrow darkened and by care disturbed, Apt likeness bears to hers through gathered

clouds Moving untouched in silver purity, And cheering ofttimes their reluctant gloom. Fair are ye both, and both are free from stain:

If on windy days the Raven Gambol 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;
Yet he slumbers without motion
On the calm and silent wave.

Day and night my toils redouble !
Never nearer to the goal;
Never-never does the trouble
of the Wanderer leave my soul.

But thou, how leisurely thou filist thy horn With a tiger-leap half way
With brightness !-leaving her to post along Now she meets the coming prey,
And range about-disquieted in change, Lets it go as fast, and then
And still impatient of the shape she wears. Has it in her power again :
Once up, once down the hill, one journey, Now she works with three or four,


Like an Indian Conjuror; That will suffice thee; and it seems that now Quick as he in feats of art, Thou hast fore-knowledge that such task Far beyond in joy of heart.

is tbinc;

Were her antics played in the eye Thou travell’st so contentedly, and sleepst Of a thousand Standers-by, In such a heedless peace. Alas! full soon Clapping hands with shout and stare, Hath this conception grateful to behold, What would little Tabby care Changed countenance, like an object sullied For the plaudits of the Crowd?


Over-happy to be proud,
By breathing mist; and thine appears to be Over-wealthy in the treasure
A mournful labour, while to her is given Of her own exceeding pleasure !
Hope-and a renovation without end,
- That smile forbids the thought ;- for on

thy face

. "Tis a pretty baby-treat; Smiles are beginning, like the beams of dawn, Nor, I deem, for me unmeet: To shoot, and circulate;-smiles have there Here, for neither Babe or me,

been seen,

Other Play-mate can I see. Tranquil assurances that Heaven supports of the countless living things, The feeble motions of thy life, and cheers That with stir of feet and wings, Thy loneliness ;-or shall those smiles be|(In the sun or under shade


Upon bough or grassy blade)
Feelers of love,-put forth as if to explore And with busy revellings,
This untried world, and to prepare thy way | Chirp and song, and murmurings,
Through a strait passage intricate and dim? Made this Orchard's narrow space
Such are they,-and the same are tokens, And this Vale so blithe a place;


Multitudes are swept away Which, when the appointed season bath Never more to breathe the day:


Some are sleeping ; some in bands
Joy, as her holiest language, shall adopt; Travell'd into distant lands;
And Reason's god-like Power be proud to own. Others slunk to moor and wood,

Far from human neighbourhood;
And, among the Kinds that keep
With us closer fellowship;

With us openly abide,
THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING | All have laid their mirth aside.

Where is he that giddy Sprite,

Blue-cap, with his colours bright, That way look, my Infant, lo!

Who was blest as bird could be, What a pretty baby-show!

Feeding in the apple-tree; See the Kitten on the Wall,

Made such wanton spoil and ront, Sporting with the leaves that fall,

Turning blossoms inside out, Wither'd leaves--one-- two-and three, Hung with head towards the ground, From the lofty Elder-tree!

Flutter'd, perch'd, into a round Through the calm and frosty air

Bound himself, and then unbound; of this morning bright and fair,

Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin, Eddying round and round they sink

Prettiest Tumbler ever seen, Softly, slowly: one might think,

Light of heart, and light of limb, From the motions that are made,

What is now become of Him? Every little leaf convey'd

Lambs, that through the mountains went Sylph or Faery hither tending,

Frisking, bleating merriment, To this lower world descending,

When the year was in it's prime, Each invisible and mute,

They are sober'd by this time In his wavering parachute.

If you look to vale or hill, But the Kitten, how she starts,

If you listen, all is still, Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts ! Save a little neighbouring Rill; First at one and then it's fellow

That from out the rocky ground Just as light and just as yellow;

Strikes a solitary sound. There are many now-now one

Vainly glitters hill and plain. Now they stop; and there are none

And the air is calm in vain; What intenseness of desire

Vainly Morning spreads the lare In her upward eye of fire !

of a sky serene and pure ;

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