Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared,

Where by that dream he had been cheered
Beneath the shady tree.

XXVI.

1818.

THE POET AND THE CAGED TURTLEDOVE.

As often as I murmur here

My half-formed melodies,

Straight from her osier mansion near
The Turtledove replies:
Though silent as a leaf before,
The captive promptly coos;
Is it to teach her own soft lore,
Or second my weak Muse?

I rather think, the gentle Dove
Is murmuring a reproof,
Displeased that I from lays of love
Have dared to keep aloof;
That I, a Bard of hill and dale,
Have carolled, fancy free,
As if nor dove nor nightingale
Had heart or voice for me.

If such thy meaning, O forbear,
Sweet Bird! to do me wrong;

Love, blessed Love, is everywhere
The spirit of my song:

'Mid grove, and by the calm fireside,
Love animates my lyre;

That coo again! - 't is not to chide,

I feel, but to inspire.

XXVII.

A WREN'S NEST.

AMONG the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,
Is none that with the little Wren's
In snugness may compare.

No door the tenement requires,
And seldom needs a labored roof;

Yet is it to the fiercest sun

Impervious, and storm-proof.

So warm, so beautiful withal,
In perfect fitness for its aim,
That to the Kind by special grace
Their instinct surely came.

And when for their abodes they seek

An opportune recess,

1830.

The hermit has no finer eye
For shadowy quietness.

These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls,
A canopy in some still nook;
Others are pent-housed by a brae
That overhangs a brook.

There to the brooding bird her mate
Warbles by fits his low, clear song;
And by the busy streamlet both
Are sung to all day long.

Or in sequestered lanes they build,
Where, till the flitting bird's return,
Her eggs within the nest repose,
Like relics in an urn.

But still, where general choice is good,
There is a better and a best;
And, among fairest objects, some
Are fairer than the rest;

This, one of those small builders proved In a green covert, where, from out The forehead of a pollard oak,

The leafy antlers sprout;

For she who planned the mossy lodge, Mistrusting her evasive skill,

Had to a Primrose looked for aid

Her wishes to fulfil.

High on the trunk's projecting brow,
And fixed an infant's span above
The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest,
The prettiest of the grove!

The treasure proudly did I show

To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things; but once Looked up for it in vain :

"T is gone,

a ruthless spoiler's prey,

Who heeds not beauty, love, or song!

'T is gone! (so seemed it,) and we grieved, Indignant at the wrong.

Just three days after, passing by

In clearer light, the moss-built cell
I saw, espied its shaded mouth;
And felt that all was well.

The Primrose for a veil had spread
The largest of her upright leaves;

And thus, for purposes benign,

A simple flower deceives.

Concealed from friends who might disturb

Thy quiet with no ill intent

Secure from evil eyes and hands
On barbarous plunder bent,

Rest, Mother-bird! and when thy young
Take flight, and thou art free to roam,
When withered is the guardian Flower,
And empty thy late home,

Think how ye prospered, thou and thine,
Amid the unviolated grove,

Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft,
In foresight, or in love.

XXVIII.

LOVE-LIES-BLEEDING.

You call it, "Love-lies-bleeding,"

1833.

so you may,

Though the red Flower, not prostrate, only droops,

As we have seen it here from day to day,
From month to month, life passing not away:
A flower how rich in sadness! Even thus stoops,
(Sentient by Grecian sculpture's marvellous power)
Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent
Earthward in uncomplaining languishment,
The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower!
('T is Fancy guides me, willing to be led,
Though by a slender thread,)