Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pygmy size! See where mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly learnéd To A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral, And this hath now his heart, Ere this be thrown aside, The little actor cons another part;` Filling from time to time his humorous stage With all the persons, down to palsied age, Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity; Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage; thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted forever by the eternal mind, Mighty prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A presence which is not to be put by: Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom, on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! O joy that in our embers Is something that doth live; That Nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed Delight and liberty, the simple creed Nor man nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Hence, in a season of calm weather, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea more. Then, sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young lambs bound We, in thought, will join your throng, Be now forever taken from my sight; We will grieve not, rather find In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. 99 | And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Even more than when I tripped lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober coloring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. THE DAFFODILS. I WANDERED lonely as a cloud Continuous as the stars that shine The waves beside them danced, but they I gazed-and gazed-but little thought TO THE CUCKOO. O BLITHE new-comer! I have heard, O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, While I am lying on the grass Though babbling only to the vale Thrice welcome, darling of the spring! No bird, but an invisible thing, The same whom in my school-boy days To seek thee did I often rove And I can listen to thee yet; O blessed bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, fairy place A MEMORY. THREE years she grew in sun and shower; "Myself will to my darling be In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, "She shall be sportive as the fawn, That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm, Of mute insensate things. "The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; E'en in the motions of the storm "The stars of midnight shall be dear And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. "And vital feelings of delight Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give Here in this happy dell.” Thus Nature spake. The work was doneHow soon my Lucy's race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene; SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. SHE was a phantom of delight I saw her upon nearer view, Tareye is het vir sun and shɔwer; ¦ ¦ 1 eyes as stars of whi̟, ht fi: var. said, 'A lover flower On el was not SOV “. in rock and plea, Ike twright's, to), her lusky ring I awh i upo Pare, va A p: it yet a man, too th and beaten, in glude an 1 bower, And styrs of vi, at large teal an overseeing power 29 kapde o, estraj A count ha ce în v as |