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And wearily at length should fare;
He needs 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 couched an hour,
Have I derived from thy sweet power

Some apprehension;
Some steady love; some brief delight;
Some
memory

that had taken flight; 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.

Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,
When thou art up, alert and gay,
Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play

With kindred gladness :
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest

Hath often easėd 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 pleasant course, - when day's begun
As ready to salute the sun

As lark or leveret,
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ;
Nor be less dear to future men
Than in old time; -thou not in vain
Art Nature's favorite.*

1802.

* See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honors formerly paid to this slower.

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With little here to do or see
Of things that in the great world be,
Daisy ! again I talk to thee,

For thou art worthy,
Thou unassuming Commonplace
Of Nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a grace,

Which Love makes for thee!

Oft on the dappled turf at ease
I sit, and play with similes,
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 humor 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 !

IX.

THE GREEN LINNET.

BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread

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.

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