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 suver shield with boss of gold,
That spreads itself, some fairy 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!
Eyes of some men travel far
For the finding of a star;
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 befall the yellow flowers, Children of the flaring hours!
ting itself up and opening out according to the degree of light and temperature of the air.". It may be observed that Wordsworth seldom, if ever, speaks of the fra grance of flowers. The pleasure from this source was denied to him: he had no sense of smell, -a deficiency that he himself re gretted very much.
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.
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 sigh'd to measure
By myself a lonely pleasure,
Sigh'd 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 all are 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 shoon:"
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.
THE REDBREAST.
(Suggested in a Westmoreland Cottage.) DRIVEN in by Autumn's sharpening air From half-stripp'd woods and pastures bare,
Brisk Robin seeks a kindlier home:
Not like a beggar is he come,
But enters as a look'd-for guest,
Confiding in his ruddy breast,
As if it were a natural shield
Charged with a blazon on the field,
Due to that good and pious deed
Of which we in the Ballad read.9
But, pensive fancies putting by,
And wild-wood sorrows, speedily
He plays th' expert ventriloquist;
And, caught by glimpses now, now miss'd
Puzzles the listener with a doubt
If the soft voice he throws about
Comes from within doors or without.
Was ever such a sweet confusion,
Sustain'd by delicate illusion?
He's at your elbow,- to your feeling
The notes are from the floor or ceiling;
And there's a riddle to be guess'd,
Till you have mark'd his heaving chest
And busy throat, whose sink and swell
Betray the Elf that loves to dwell
In Robin's bosom, as a chosen cell.
Heart-pleased we smile upon the Bird
If seen, and with like pleasure stirr'd
Commend him when he's only heard.
But small and fugitive our gain
Compared with hers who long hath lain,
With languid limbs and patient head
Reposing on a lone sick-bed;1
Where now she daily hears a strain
That cheats her of too busy cares,
Eases her pain, and helps her prayers.
And who but this dear Bird beguiled
The fever of that pale-faced Child;
Now cooling, with his passing wing,
Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring?
Recalling now, with descant soft
Shed round her pillow from aloft,
Sweet thoughts of angels hovering nigh,
And the invisible sympathy
Of "Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John,
Blessing the bed she lies upon " ? 2
And sometimes, just as listening ends
In slumber, with the cadence blends
A dream of that low-warbled hymn
Which old folk, fondly pleased to trim
Lamps of faith, now burning dim,
Say that the Cherubs carved in stone,
When clouds gave way at dead of night
And th' ancient church was fill'd with
Used to sing in heavenly tone, [light,
Above and round the sacred places
They guard, with wingèd baby-faces.
Thrice happy Creature, in all lands
Nurtured by hospitable hands!
Free entrance to this cot has he,
Entrance and exit both yet free;
And, when the keen unruffled weather,
That thus brings man and bird together,
Shall with its pleasantness be past,
And casement closed and door made fast,
To keep at bay the howling blast,
He needs not fear the season's rage,
For the whole house is Robin's cage.
Whether the bird flit here or there,
O'er table lilt, or perch on chair,
Though some may frown and make a stir,
To scare him as a trespasser,
And he belike will flinch or start,
Good friends he has to take his part;
One chiefly, who with voice and look
Pleads for him from the chimney-nook,
Where sits the Dame, and wears away
Her long and vacant holiday;
With images about her heart,
Reflected from the years gone by,
On human nature's second infancy.
WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY.
DEAR Child of Nature, let them rail!There is a nest in a green dale,
A harbour and a hold;
Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see
Thy own heart-stirring days, and be
A light to young and old.
There, healthy as a shepherd boy,
And treading among flowers of joy
Which at no season fade,
1 All our cats having been banished the house, it was soon frequented by redbreasts. My sister, being then confined to her room by sickness, as, dear creature, she stil is, had one that, without being caged, took up its abode with her, and at night used to perch upon a nail from Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, which a picture had hung. It used to sing Shalt show us how divine a thing and fan her face with its wings in a manner that was very touching.-The Author's
Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh, A melancholy slave;
2 The poet tells us that these words Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, were part of a child's prayer, "still in general use through the northern counties." My own childhood was familiar with the same prayer, two lines of it running thus:
"Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, Bless the bed that I lie on."
But an old age serene and bright, And lovely as a Lapland night, Shall lead thee to thy grave.
Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from Richmond in York. shire, and near the side of the road that leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable Chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the Second Part of the following Poem, which mon. uments do now exist as I have there described them.
THE Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
With the slow motion of a Summer's cloud,
And now, as he approach'd a vassal's door,
Bring forth another horse!" he cried aloud.
"Another horse!"-That shout the vassal heard,
And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey;
Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.
Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes;
The horse and horseman are a happy pair;
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
There is a doleful silence in the air.
A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,
That as they gallop'd made the echoes roar;
But horse and man are vanish'd, one and all;
Such race, I think, was never seen before.
Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain:
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.
The Knight halloo'd, he cheer'd and chid them on
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;
But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one,
The dogs are stretch'd among the mountain fern.
Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
This chase it looks not like an earthly chase;
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.
The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died;
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.
Dismounting then, he lean'd against a thorn;
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy:
He neither crack'd his whip, nor blew his horn,
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.
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