60 TO THE DAISY. If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, And wearily at length should fare; A hundred times, by rock or bower, Some steady love, some brief delight; 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 ; TO THE DAISY. A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure. Fresh smitten by the morning ray, With kindred gladness: And when, at dusk, by dews opprest, And all day long I number yet, 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 As ready to salute the sun As lark or leveret, 61 Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain; Than in old time;-thou not in vain. Art Nature's favorite. WORDSWORTH HARVEST. HERE, 'midst the boldest triumphs of her worth, Dares the keen sickle from its twelvemonth's rest, And gives that ardor which in every breast. When the first sheaf its plumy top uprears. No rake takes here what Heaven to all bestows- And every cottage from the plenteous store Hark! where the sweeping scythe now rips along, Each sturdy mower, emulous and strong, Come, Health! come, Jollity! lightfooted, come; Here hold your revels, and make this your home: Each heart awaits and hails you as its own: Each moistened brow, that scorns to wear a frown. Hies to the field, the general toil to share. And every breast love's powerful impulse knows, Confess the presence of a pretty face. BLOOMFIELD. 64 AN ITALIAN SONG. AN ITALIAN SONG. DEAR is my little native vale, The ringdove builds and murmurs there, To every passing villager. The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, With my loved lute's romantic sound; The shepherd's horn at break of day, ROGERS |