And many a fond and idle name
I give to thee, for praise or blan
As is the humour of the game,
While I am gazing.

A nun demure of lowly port;

Or sprightly 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 seems 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 some 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 thee!

Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;-
May peace come never to his nest

Who shall reprove thee!

Bright Flower! for by that name at last,
When all my reveries are past,,

I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
Sweet silent creature!

That breath'st with me in sun and air,
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
My heart with gladness, and a share
Of thy meek nature!

1805.

IX.

THE GREEN LINNET.

BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head
With brightest sunshine round me sprea
Of spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!

And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year's friends together.
One have I marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:

Hail to Thee, far above the rest

In joy of voice and pinion!

Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding Spirit here to-day,
Dost lead the revels of the May;

And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment:
A Life, a Presence like the Air,
Scattering thy gladness without care
Too blest with any one to pair;

Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstacies,

Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body fling>
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
A Brother of the dancing leaves;
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
Pours forth his song in gushes;
As if by that exulting strain

He mocked and treated with disdain
The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.

1803.

X.

TO A SKY-LARK.

Up with me! up with me into the clouds!
For thy song, Lark, is strong:
Up with me, up with me into the clouds!
Singing, singing,

With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find

That spot which seems so to thy mind!

I have walked through wildernesses dreary And to-day my heart is weary:

Had I now the wings of a Faery,

Up to thee would I fly.

There is madness about thee, and joy divine In that song of thine:

Lift me, guide me high and high

To thy banqueting-place in the sky.

Joyous as morning

Thou art laughing and scorning;

Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth
To be such a traveller as I.
Happy, happy Liver,

With a soul as strong as a mountain river
Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both!
Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,
Through prickly moors or dusty ways must
wind:

But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,
As full of gladness and as free of heaven,
I, with my fate contented, will plod on,
And hope for higher raptures, when life's day
is done.

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 a sage 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 thrush
Has a thought about her nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless Prodigal;
Telling tales about the sun,
When we've little warmth, or none.
Poets, vain men in their mood!
Travel with the multitude:
Never heed them; I aver
That they all are wanton wooers;
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 show 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 see 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,

Ill-requited upon earth:

Herald of a mighty band,

Of a joyous train ensuing,

Serving at my heart's command,

Tasks that are no tasks renewing, I will sing, as doth behove, Hymns in praise of what I love! 1803.

XII.

TO THE SAME FLOWER. PLEASURES newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet: February last, my heart

First at sight of thee was glad;
All unheard of as thou art,

Thou must needs, I think, have had,
Celandine! and long ago,

Praise of which I nothing know.

I have 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 rising 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, Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould All about 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, Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold; Liveliest of the vernal train When ye are all out again. Drawn by what peculiar spell, By what charm of sight or smell, Does the dim-eyed curious Bee, Labouring for her waxen cells, Fondly settle upon Thee, Prized above all buds and bells Opening daily at thy side, By the season multiplied? Thou art not beyond the moon, But a thing beneath our shoor Let the bold Discoverer thrid In his bark the polar sea; Rear who will a pyramid: Praise it is enough for me, If there be but three or four Who will love my little Flower.

1803.

XIII.

THE SEVEN SISTERS;
OR,

THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE.

I.

SEVEN Daughters had Lord Archibald,
All children of one mother:
You could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A garland, of seven lilies, wrought!
Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
Their Father, took of them no thought,
He loved the wars so well.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

II.

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the shores of Erin,

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 inan 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!

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!"-

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 charmed mind
Beholding what your skill has wrought,
Another Star-of-Bethlehem find,
A new Forget-me-not.