TO A SKY-LARK.

UP with me! up with me into the clouds: For thy song, Lark, is strong;

Up with me, up with me into the clouds !
Singing, singing,

With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find

That spot which seems so to thy mind!

1 have walked through wildernesses dreary And to-day my heart is weary;

Had I now the wings of a Faery,
Up to thee would I fly.

There is madness about thee, anu joy divine

In that song of thine;

Lift me, guide me high and high

To thy banqueting-place in the sky.

Joyous as morning

Thou art laughing and scorning:
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth
To be such a traveller as I.
Happy, happy Liver,

With a soul as strong as a mountain river
Pouring out praise to the almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both!

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven, Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind;

But hearing thee, or others of thy kind, As full of gladness and as free of heaven, 1, with my fate contented, will plod on, And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is done.

1805.

XI.

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.*

PANSIES, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there's a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are violets,
They will have a place in story:
There's a flower that shall be mine,
'Tis the little Celandine.

Eyes of some men travel far
For the finding of a star;

Up and down the heavens they go
Men that keep a mighty routĺ
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 neighborhood,
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.

Common Pilewort.

A

Ill befall the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
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.

XII.

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 sighed to measure
By myself a lonely pleasure,
Sighed 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 we are all out again.
Drawn by what peculiar spell,
By what charm of sight of smell,
Does the dim-eyed curious Bee,
Laboring 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.

XIV.

WHO fancied what a pretty sight
This rock would be if edged around
With living snow-drops? circlet bright!
How glorious to this orchard-ground!
Who loved the little Rock, and set
Upon its head this coronet?

Was it the humor of a child?

Or rather of some gentle maid,

Whose brows, the day that she was styled,
The shepherd-queen, were thus arrayed?
Of man mature, or matron sage?
Or old man toying with his age?

I asked 'twas whispered: The device
To each and all might well belong :
It is the Spirit of Paradise

That prompts such work, a Spirit strong,
That gives to all the self-same bent
Where life is wise and innocent.
1803.

XV.

THE REDBREAST CHASING THE

BUTTERFLY

ART thou the bird whom Man loves best,
The pious bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English Robin;
The bird that comes about our doors
When Autumn-winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway Boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,

And Russia far inland?

The bird, that by some name or other
All men who know thee call their brother,
The darling of children and men?
Could Father Adam open Iris eyes
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.

-If the Butterfly knew but his friend,
Hither his flight he would bend;
And find his way to me,
Under the branches of the tree:
In and out, he darts about;
Can this be the bird, to man so good,
That, after their bewildering
Covered with leaves the little children,

So painfully in the wood.

What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue

A beautiful creature, That is gentle by nature?

Beneath the summer sky
From flo er to flower let him fly;
'Tis all that he wishes to do.

The cheerer Thou of our indoor sadness,
He is the friend of our summer gladness:
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the sunny weather,
And fly about in the air together!
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
A crimson as bright as thine own :
Would'st thou be happy in thy nest,
O pious Bird! whom man loves best,
Love him, or leave him alone!
1806.

But in man was ne'er such daring
As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing
His brave spirit with the war in
The stormy skies!

Mark him, how his power he uses,
Lays it by, at will resumes!
Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses
Clouds and utter glooms!
There, he wheels in downward mazes ;
Sunward now his flight he raises,
Catches fire, as seems, and blazes
With uninjured plumes!".

ANSWER.

"Stranger, 'tis no act of courage
Which aloft thou dost discern;
No bold bird gone forth to forage
'Mid the tempest stern;
But such mockery as the nations
See, when public perturbations
Lift men from their native stations
Like yon TUFT OF FERN;

MORELAND.

SWIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel!
Night has brought the welcome hour
When the weary fingers feel
Help, as if from fairy power;
Dewy night o'ershades the ground;

Turn the swift wheel round and round!
Now, beneath the starry sky,
Couch the widely-scattered sheep;
Ply the pleasant labor, ply!
For the spindle, while they sleep,

Runs with speed more smooth and fine,
Gathering up a trustier line.
Short-lived likings may be bred
By a glance from fickle eyes;
But true love is like the thread
Which the kindly wool supplies,
When the flocks are all at rest
Sleeping on the mountain's breast,
1812.

XVII.

HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS,

FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS.

"Who but hails the sight with pleasure
When the wings of genius rise
Their ability to measure

With great enterprise ;

Soaring on undaunted wing, (So you fancied) is by nature

A dull helpless thing,

Cry and withered, light and yellow;-
That to be the tempest's fellow!
Wait-and you shall see how hollow
Its endeavoring!"

1817.

XVIII.

ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP.

THE WORK OF E. M. S.

FROWNS are on every Muse's face,
Reproaches from their lips are sent,
That mimicry should thus disgrace
The noble Instrument.

A very Harp in all but size!

Needles for strings in apt gradation!
Minerva's self would stigmatize
The unclassic profanation.

Even her own needle that subdued
Arachne's rival spirit,

Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood,
Such honor could not merit.

And this, too, from the Laureate's Child,
A living lord of melody!
How will her Sire be reconciled
To the refined indignity?

I spake, when whispered a low voice,
Bard! moderate your ire;
Spirits of all degrees rejoice
In presence of the lyre.

The Minstrels of Pygmean bands,
Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays,
Have shells to fit their tiny hands
And suit their slender lays.

Some, still more delicate of ear,

Have lutes (believe my words)
Whose framework is of gossamer,
While sunbeams are the chords.

Gay Sylphs this miniature will court,
Made vocal by their brushing wings,
And sullen Gnomes will learn to sport
Around its polished strings;

Whence strains to love-sick maiden dear,
While in her lonely bower she tries
To cheat the thought she cannot cheer,
By fanciful embroideries.

Trust, angry Bard! a knowing Sprite,
Nor think the Harp her lot deplores;
Though 'mid the stars the Lyre shine
bright,

Love stoops as fondly as he soars.
1827.

"

Still as we look with nicer care,
Some new resemblance we may trace:
A Heart's-ease will perhaps be there,

A Speedwell may not want its place. And so may we, with charmèd mind Beholding what your skill has wrought, Another Star-of-Bethlehem find,

A new Forget-me-not.

From earth to heaven with motion fleet, From heaven to earth our thoughts will pass,

A Holy-thistle here we meet

And there a Shepherd's weather-glass; And haply some familiar name

Shall grace the fairest, sweetest plant Whose presence cheers the drooping frame Of English Emigrant.

Gazing she feels its power beguile

Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath;

Alas! that meek, that tender smile

Is but a harbinger of death:

And pointing with a feeble hand

She says, in faint words by sighs broken, Bear for me to my native land

This precious Flower, true love's last token.

FAIR Lady! can I sing of flowers

That in Madeira bloom and fade,
I who ne'er sate within their bowers,
Nor through their sunny lawns have
strayed?

How they in sprightly dance are worn
By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen,
Or holy festal pomps adorn,

These eyes have never seen
Yet tho' to me the pencil's art

No like remembrances can give,
Your portraits still may reach the heart
And there for gentle pleasure live,
While Fancy ranging with free scope
Shall on some lovely Alien set
A name with us endearea to hope,
To peace, or fond regret.

GLAD sight wherever new with old
Is joined through some dear homeborn tie;
The life of all that we behold
Depends upon that mystery.
Vain is the glory of the sky,
The beauty vain of field and grove,
Unless, while with admiring eye
We gaze, we also learn to love.