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THE GREEN LINNET

 
  The May is come again: – how sweet
  To sit upon my Orchard-seat!
  And Birds and Flowers once more to greet,
        My last year's Friends together:
  My thoughts they all by turns employ;
  A whispering Leaf is now my joy,
  And then a Bird will be the toy
        That doth my fancy tether.
 
 
  One have I mark'd, 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 bless'd with any one to pair,
        Thyself thy own enjoyment.
 
 
  Upon yon tuft of hazel trees,
  That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
  Behold him perch'd in ecstasies,
        Yet seeming still to hover;
  There! where the flutter of his wings
  Upon his back and body flings
  Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
        That cover him all over.
 
 
  While thus before my eyes he gleams,
  A Brother of the Leaves he seems;
  When in a moment forth he teems
        His little song in gushes:
  As if it pleas'd him to disdain
  And mock the Form which he did feign,
  While he was dancing with the train
        Of Leaves among the bushes.
 

TO A YOUNG LADY,

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 delightful days, and be
  A light to young and old.
 
 
  There, healthy as a Shepherd-boy,
  As if thy heritage were joy,
  And pleasure were thy trade,
  Thou, while thy Babes around thee cling,
  Shalt shew us how divine a thing
  A Woman may be made.
 
 
  Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
  Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh,
  A melancholy slave
  But an old age, alive and bright,
  And lovely as a Lapland night,
  Shall lead thee to thy grave.
  " —Pleasure is spread through the earth  In stray gifts to be claim'd by whoever shall find."
 

* * * * *

 
      By their floating Mill,
      Which lies dead and still,
  Behold yon Prisoners three!
  The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames;
  The Platform is small, but there's room for them all;
  And they're dancing merrily.
 
 
      From the shore come the notes
      To their Mill where it floats,
  To their House and their Mill tether'd fast;
  To the small wooden isle where their work to beguile
  They from morning to even take whatever is given; —
  And many a blithe day they have past.
 
 
        In sight of the Spires
        All alive with the fires
  Of the Sun going down to his rest,
  In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
  They dance, – there are three, as jocund as free,
  While they dance on the calm river's breast.
 
 
        Man and Maidens wheel,
        They themselves make the Reel,
  And their Music's a prey which they seize;
  It plays not for them, – what matter! 'tis their's;
  And if they had care it has scattered their cares,
  While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!"
 
 
        They dance not for me,
        Yet mine is their glee!
  Thus pleasure is spread through the earth
  In stray gifts to be claim'd by whoever shall find;
  Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,
  Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.
 
 
      The Showers of the Spring
      Rouze the Birds and they sing;
  If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight,
  Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss,
  Each Wave, one and t'other, speeds after his Brother;
  They are happy, for that is their right!
 

STAR GAZERS

 
  What crowd is this? what have we here! we must not pass it by;
  A Telescope upon its frame, and pointed to the sky:
  Long is it as a Barber's Poll, or Mast of little Boat,
  Some little Pleasure-Skiff, that doth on Thames's waters float.
 
 
  The Show-man chuses well his place, 'tis Leicester's busy Square;
  And he's as happy in his night, for the heavens are blue and fair;
  Calm, though impatient is the Crowd; Each is ready with the fee,
  And envies him that's looking – what an insight must it be!
 
 
  Yet, Show-man, where can lie the cause? Shall thy Implement have
           blame,
  A Boaster, that when he is tried, fails, and is put to shame?
  Or is it good as others are, and be their eyes in fault?
  Their eyes, or minds? or, finally, is this resplendent Vault?
 
 
  Is nothing of that radiant pomp so good as we have here?
  Or gives a thing but small delight that never can be dear?
  The silver Moon with all her Vales, and Hills of mightiest fame,
  Do they betray us when they're seen? and are they but a name?
 
 
  Or is it rather that Conceit rapacious is and strong,
  And bounty never yields so much but it seems to do her wrong?
  Or is it, that when human Souls a journey long have had,
  And are returned into themselves, they cannot but be sad?
 
 
  Or must we be constrain'd to think that these Spectators rude,
  Poor in estate, of manners base, men of the multitude,
  Have souls which never yet have ris'n, and therefore prostrate lie?
  No, no, this cannot be – Men thirst for power and majesty!
 
 
  Does, then, a deep and earnest thought the blissful mind employ
  Of him who gazes, or has gazed? a grave and steady joy,
  That doth reject all shew of pride, admits no outward sign,
  Because not of this noisy world, but silent and divine!
 
 
  Whatever be the cause, 'tis sure that they who pry & pore
  Seem to meet with little gain, seem less happy than before:
  One after One they take their turns, nor have I one espied
  That doth not slackly go away, as if dissatisfied.
 

POWER OF MUSIC

 
  An Orpheus! An Orpheus! – yes, Faith may grow bold,
  And take to herself all the wonders of old; —
  Near the stately Pantheon you'll meet with the same,
  In the street that from Oxford hath borrowed its name.
 
 
  His station is there; – and he works on the crowd,
  He sways them with harmony merry and loud;
  He fills with his power all their hearts to the brim —
  Was aught ever heard like his fiddle and him!
 
 
  What an eager assembly! what an empire is this!
  The weary have life and the hungry have bliss;
  The mourner is cheared, and the anxious have rest;
  And the guilt-burthened Soul is no longer opprest.
 
 
  As the Moon brightens round her the clouds of the night,
  So he where he stands is a center of light;
  It gleams on the face, there, of dusky-faced Jack,
  And the pale-visaged Baker's, with basket on back.
 
 
  That errand-bound 'Prentice was passing in haste —
  What matter! he's caught – and his time runs to waste —
  The News-man is stopped, though he stops on the fret,
  And the half-breathless Lamp-lighter he's in the net!
 
 
  The Porter sits down on the weight which he bore;
  The Lass with her barrow wheels hither her store; —
  If a Thief could be here he might pilfer at ease;
  She sees the Musician, 'tis all that she sees!
 
 
  He stands, back'd by the Wall; – he abates not his din;
  His hat gives him vigour, with boons dropping in,
  From the Old and the Young, from the Poorest; and there!
  The one-pennied Boy has his penny to spare.
 
 
  O blest are the Hearers and proud be the Hand
  Of the pleasure it spreads through so thankful a Band;
  I am glad for him, blind as he is! – all the while
  If they speak 'tis to praise, and they praise with a smile.
 
 
  That tall Man, a Giant in bulk and in height,
  Not an inch of his body is free from delight;
  Can he keep himself still, if he would? oh, not he!
  The music stirs in him like wind through a tree.
 
 
  There's a Cripple who leans on his Crutch; like a Tower
  That long has lean'd forward, leans hour after hour! —
  Mother, whose Spirit in fetters is bound,
  While she dandles the babe in her arms to the sound.
 
 
  Now, Coaches and Chariots, roar on like a stream;
  Here are twenty souls happy as Souls in a dream:
  They are deaf to your murmurs – they care not for you,
  Nor what ye are flying, or what ye pursue!
 

TO THE DAISY

The two following Poems were overflowings of the mind in composing the one which stands first in the first Volume

 
  With little here to do or see
  Of things that in the great world be,
  Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee,
      For thou art worthy,
  Thou unassuming Common-place
  Of Nature, with that homely face,
  And yet with something of a grace,
      Which Love makes for thee!
 
 
  Oft do I sit by thee at ease,
  And weave a web of similies,
  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 humour 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 seem 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!
 
 
  Sweet 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!
 

TO THE SAME FLOWER

 
  Bright Flower, whose home is every where!
  A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care,
  And all the long year through the heir
        Of joy or sorrow,
  Methinks that there abides in thee
  Some concord with humanity,
  Given to no other Flower I see
        The forest thorough!
 
 
  Is it that Man is soon deprest?
  A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest,
  Does little on his memory rest,
        Or on his reason,
  And Thou would'st teach him how to find
  A shelter under every wind.
  A hope for times that are unkind
        And every season?
 
 
  Thou wander'st the wide world about,
  Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt,
  With friends to greet thee, or without,
        Yet pleased and willing;
  Meek, yielding to the occasion's call,
  And all things suffering from all,
  Thy function apostolical
        In peace fulfilling.
 

INCIDENT,

Characteristic of a favourite Dog, which belonged to a Friend of the Author

 
  On his morning rounds the Master
  Goes to learn how all things fare;
  Searches pasture after pasture,
  Sheep and Cattle eyes with care;
  And, for silence or for talk,
  He hath Comrades in his walk;
  Four Dogs, each pair of different breed,
  Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.
 
 
  See, a Hare before him started!
  – Off they fly in earnest chace;
  Every Dog is eager-hearted,
  All the four are in the race!
  And the Hare whom they pursue
  Hath an instinct what to do;
  Her hope is near: no turn she makes;
  But, like an arrow, to the River takes.
 
 
  Deep the River was, and crusted
  Thinly by a one night's frost;
  But the nimble Hare hath trusted
  To the ice, and safely crost;
  She hath crost, and without heed
  All are following at full speed,
  When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread,
  Breaks – and the Greyhound, DART, is over head!
 
 
  Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW —
  See them cleaving to the sport!
  Music has no heart to follow,
  Little Music, she stops short.
  She hath neither wish nor heart.
  Her's is now another part:
  A loving Creature she, and brave!
  And doth her best her struggling Friend to save.
 
 
  From the brink her paws she stretches,
  Very hands as you would say!
  And afflicting moans she fetches,
  As he breaks the ice away.
  For herself she hath no fears,
  Him alone she sees and hears,
  Makes efforts and complainings; nor gives o'er
  Until her Fellow sunk, and reappear'd no more.