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In phrase that now with echoes soft

Haunted her lonely cell;
She saw th’ hereditary bowers,

She heard th' ancestral stream;
The Kremlin and its haughty towers

Forgotten like a dream!

While I have lodged in this rough hold,

From social life estranged;
Nor yet of trouble and alarms:

High Heaven is my defence;
And every season has soft arms

For injured Innocence.

From Moscow to the Wilderness

It was my choice to come,

Lest virtue should be harbourless,
THE ever-changing Moon had traced

And honour want a home;
Twelve times her monthly round, And happy were I, if the Czar
When through the unfrequented Waste Retain his lawless will,
Was heard a startling sound;

To end life here like this poor deer,
A shout thrice sent from one who chased

Or a lamb on a green hill.” At speed a wounded deer, Bounding through branches interlaced, “Are you the Maid,” the Stranger cried, And where the wood was clear.

“From Gallic parents sprung,

Whose vanishing was rumour'd wide, The fainting creature took the marsh,

Sad theme for every tongue ? And toward the Island fled,

Who foil'd an Emperor's eager quest? While plovers scream'd with tumult harsh

You, Lady, forced to wear Above his antler'd head:

These rude habiliments, and rest This, Ina saw; and, pale with fear,

Your head in this dark lair !" Shrunk to her citadel; The desperate deer rush'd on, and near But wonder, pity, soon were quell'd; The tangled covert fell.

And in her face and mien

The soul's pure brightness he beheld Across the marsh, the game in view, Without a veil between: The Hunter follow'd fast,

He loved, he hoped, -a holy flame Nor paused, till o'er the stag he blew

Kindled 'mid rapturous tears; A death-proclaiming blast;

The passion of a moment came
Then, resting on her upright mind,

As on the wings of years.
Came forth the Maid: “In me
Beholil,” she said, “a stricken Hind “Such bounty is no gift of chance,"
Pursued by destiny!

Exclaim'd he; “righteous Heaven,

Preparing your deliverance, From your deportment, Sir, I deem

To me the charge hath given. That you have worn a sword,

The Czar full oft in words and deeds And will not hold in light esteem

Is stormy and self-will'd; A suffering woman's word:

But, when the Lady Catherine 7 pleads, There is my covert, there perchance

His violence is still'd.
I might have lain conceal’d,
My fortunes hid, my countenance

“Leave open to my wish the course, Not even to you reveal'd.

And I to her will go;

From that humane and heavenly source, Tears might be shed, and I might pray, Good, only good, can flow.”Crouching and terrified,

Faint sanction given, the Cavalier
That what has been unveil'd to-day, Was eager to depart,
You would in mystery hide;

Though question follow'd question, dcar But I will not defile with dust

To the Maiden's filial heart. The knee that bends to adore

Light was his step,-his hopes, more light, The God in Heaven: attend, be just; This ask I, and no more.

Kept pace with his desires;

7 This was the famous lally then bear. I speak not of the Winter's cold,

ing that name as the acknowledged wito For Summer's heat exchanged,

of Peter the Great.

And the fifth morning gave him sight But, seeing no relief, at last
Of Moscow's glittering spires.

He ventured to reply.
He sued :-heart-smitten by the wrong,
To the lorn Fugitive

“Ah!” said the Briar, “blame me not; The Emperor sent a pledge as strong

Why should we dwell in strife? As sovereign power could give.

We who in this sequester'd spot

Once lived a happy life!
O more than mighty change! If e'er You stirr'd me on my rocky bed,-
Amazement rose to pain,

What pleasure thro’my veins you spread! And joy's excess produced a fear

The Summer long, from day to day, Of something void and vain;

My leaves you freshen'd and bedew'd; 'Twas when the Parents, who had mourn'a Nor was it common gratitude So long the lost as dead,

That did your cares repay.
Beheld their only Child return'd,
The household floor to tread.

When Spring came on with bud and bell,

Among these rocks did I Soon gratitude gave way to love

Before you hang my wreaths, to tell Within the Maiden's breast:

That gentle days were nigh: Deliver'd and Deliverer move

And in the sultry summer hours In bridal garments drest;

I shelter'd you with leaves and flowers; Meek Catherine had her own reward; And in my leaves — now shed and gone The Czar bestow'd a dower;

The linnet lodged, and for us two And universal Moscow shared

Chanted his pretty songs, when you The triumph of that hour.

Had little yoice or none. Flowers strew'd the ground; the nuptial But now proud thoughts are in your

Was held with costly state; (feast What grief is mine you see: [breast; And there, 'mid many a noble guest, Ah, would you think, even yet how blest The Foster-parents sate:

Together we might be! Encouraged by th' imperial eye,

Though of both leaf and flower bereft, They shrank not into shade;

Some ornaments to me are left,Great was their bliss, the honour high Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, To them and nature paid! (1830. With which I, in my humble way,

Would deck you many a winter day,

A happy Eglantine!”

What more he said I cannot tell:

The Torrent down the rocky dell “BEGONE, thou fond presumptuous Elf," Came thundering loud and fast; Exclaim'd an angry Voice,

I listen'd, nor aught else could hear; “Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self The Briar quaked, -and much I fear Between me and my choice!”

Those accents were his last. (1800. A small Cascade fresh swoln with snows Thus threaten'd a poor Briar-rose, That, all bespatter'd with his foam,

THE OAK AND THE BROOM. And dancing high and dancing low,

Was living, as a child might know,
In an unhappy home.

His simple truths did Andrew glean

Beside the babbling rills; “Dost thou presume my course to block? A careful student he had been of off! or, puny Thing,

Among the woods and hills. I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock One Winter's night, when thro' the trees To which thy fibres cling."

The wind was roaring, on his knees The Flood was tyrannous and strong; His youngest born did Andrew hold; The patient Briar suffer'd long,

And, while the rest, a ruddy quire, Nor did he utter groan or sigh,

Were seated round their blazing fire, Hoping the danger would be past; This Tale the Shepherd told.

"I saw a crag, a lofty stone

Disasters, do the best we can,
As ever tempest beat;

Will reach both great and small;
Out of its head an Oak had grown, And he is oft the wisest man,
A Broom out of its feet.

Who is not wise at all.
The time was March, a cheerful noon, For me, why should I wish to roam!
The thaw-wind, with the breath of June, This spot is my paternal home,
Breathed gently from the warm South-It is my pleasant heritage;
When, in a voice sedate with age, (west; My father many a happy year
This Oak, a giant and a sage,

Spread here his careless blossoms, hero His neighbour thus address'd:

Attain'd a good old age.

*Eight weary weeks, thro' rock and clay, Even such as his may be my lot.
Along this mountain's edge, [day, What cause have I to haunt
The Frost hath wrought both night and My heart with terrors? Am I not
Wedge driving after wedge.

In truth a favour'd plant?
Look up! and think, above your head On me such bounty Summer pours,
What trouble, surely, will be bred;

That I am cover'd o'er with flowers, Last night I heard a crash, — 'tis true,

And, when the Frost is in the sky,
The splinters took another road, -

My branches are so fresh and gay
I see them yonder; — what a load That you might look at me and say,
For such a Thing as you!

This Plant can never die.

You are preparing, as before,

The butterfly, all green and gold,
To deck your slender shape;

To me hath often flown,
And yet, just three years back-no more,- Here in my blossoms to behold
You had a strange escape:

Wings lovely as his own:
Down from yon cliff a fragment broke; When grass is chill with rain or dew,
It thunder'd down, with fire and smoke, Beneath my shade the mother-ewe
And hitherward pursued its way; Lies with her infant lamb; I see
This ponderous block was caught by me, The love they to each other make,
And o'er your head, as you may see, And the sweet joy which they partake,
'Tis hanging to this day.

It is a joy to me.'

If breeze or bird to this rough steep Her voice was blithe, her heart was light Your kind's first seed did bear,

The Broom might have pursued The breeze had better been asleep, Her speech, until the stars of night The bird caught in a snare:

Their journey had renew'd; For you and your green twigs decoy But in the branches of the oak The little witless shepherd-boy

Two ravens now began to croak To come and slumber in your bower; Their nuptial song, a gladsome air; And, trust me, on some sultry noon, And to her own green bower the breeze Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon! That instant brought two stripling bees, Will perish in one hour.

To rest or murmur there.

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If stately passions in me burn,

And one chance look to Thee should turn, In youth from rock to rock I went,

I drink out of an humbler urn From hill to hill in discontent

A lowlier pleasure; Of pleasure high and turbulent,

The homely sympathy that heeds Most pleased when most uneasy;

The common life, our nature breeds; But now my own delights I make,

A wisdom fitted to the needs
My thirst at every rill can slake,

Of hearts at leisure.
And gladly Nature's love partake,
Of Thee, sweet Daisy!

Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,

When thou art up, alert and gay, Thee Winter in the garland wears

Then, cheerful Flower, my spirits play That thinly decks his few grey hairs; With kindred gladness: Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, And when, at dusk, by dews opprest That she may sun thee;

Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
Whole summer-fields are thine by right; Hath often eased my pensive breast
And Autumn, melancholy Wight!

Of careful sadness.
Doth in thy crimson head delight
When rains are on thee.

And all day long I number yet,

All seasons through, another debt, In shoals and bands, a morrice train,

Which I, whenever thou art met, Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane,

To thee am owing; Pleased at his greeting thee again;

An instinct call it, a blind sense; Yet nothing daunted

A happy, genial influence, Nor grieved if thou be set at nought:

Coming one knows not how nor whence, And oft alone in nooks remote

Nor whither going. We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,

Child of the Year, that round dost run When such are wanted.

Thy pleasant course,- when day's begun

As ready to salute the Sun Be violets in their secret mews

As lark or leveret, The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;

Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain; Proud be the rose, with rains and dews

Nor be less dear to future men Her head impearling:

Than in old time; – thou not in vain Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,

Art Nature's favourite.

(1802. Yet hast not gone without thy fame; Thou art indeed by many a claim The Poet's darling.

TO THE SAME FLOWER. If to a rock from rains he fly,

With little here to do or see Or, some bright day of April sky,

Of things that in the great world be, Imprison'd by hot sunshine lie

Daisy, again I talk to thee; Near the green holly,

For thou art worthy, And wearily at length should fare;

Thon unassuming common-place He needs but look about, and there

Of Nature, with that homely face, Thou art,- a friend at hand, to scare

And yet with something of a grace, His melancholy.

Which Love makes for thee.

A hundred times, by rock or bower,
Ere thus I have lain couch'd an hour,
Have I derived from thy sweet power

Some apprehension;
Some steady love; some brief delight;
Some memory that had taken flight;
Some chime of fancy wrong or right;

Or stray invention.

Oft on the dappled turf at case
I sit, and play with similes,
Loose types of things throngh all degrees

Thoughts of thy raising:
And many a fond and idle name
I give to thee, fe praise or blame,
As is the humour of the game,

While I am gazing.

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Bright Flower ! for by that name at last,
When all my reveries are past,
I call thee, and to that cleave fast,

Poets, vain men in their mood,
Travel with the multitude:
Never heed them;


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 naturel


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!


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.8

Comfort have thon 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 !

8 The flower here celebrated is the ting itself up and opening out according
Common Pilewort. In his notes on the to the degree of light and temperature of
poems, the author speaks thus: “It is re- the air.” – It may be observed that Words-
markable that this flower, coming out so worth seldom, if ever, speaks of the fra.
early in the Spring as it does, and so grance of flowers. The pleasure from this
bright and beautiful, and in such profu. source was denier to him: he had no sense
sion, should not have been noticed earlier of smell, - a deficiency that he himself re-
in English verse. What adds much to the gretted very much.
interest that attends it, is its habit of shut-

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