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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.

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 Antumn'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. 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 ?

9 Alluding to the old well-known bal. lad of The Children in the Wood; espe. cially the lines, i No burial this pretty pair

Of any inan receives,
Till Robin-redbreast piously
Did cover them with leaves."

Blithe of heart, from week to week Thou dost play at hide-and-seek;

He's at your elbow,- to your feeling Above and round the sacred places The notes are from the foor or ceiling; They guard, with winged baby-faces. And there's a riddle to be guess'd,

Thrice happy Creature, in all lands Till you have mark'd his heaving chest Nurtured by hospitable hands! And busy throat, whose sink and swell Free entrance to this cot has he, Betray the Elf that loves to dwell Entrance and exit both yct free; In Robin's bosom, as a chosen cell. And, when the keen unrulled weather,

Heart-pleased we smile upon the Bird That thus brings man and bird together, It seen, and with like pleasure sthr'd Shall with its pleasantness be past, Commend him when he's only heard. And casement closed and door made fast, But small and fugitive our gain

To keep at bay the howling blast, Compared with hers who long hath lain,

He needs not fear the season's rage, With languid limbs and patient head For the whole house is Robin's cage. Reposing on a lone sick-bed; 1

Whether the bird flit here or there, Where now she daily hears a strain O'er table lilt, or perch on chair, That cheats her of too busy cares, Though some may frown and make a stir, Eases her pain, and helps her prayers.

To scare him as a trespasser, And who but this dear Bird beguiled And he belike will flinch or start, The fever of that pale-faced Child; Good friends he has to take his part; Now cooling, with his passing wing, One chiefly, who with voice and look Her forehead, like a breeze of Spring ? Pleads for him from the chimney-nook, Recalling now, with descant soft

Where sits the Dame, and wears away Shed round her pillow from aloft,

Her long and vacant holiday; Sweet thonghts of angels hovering nigh, With images about her heart, And the invisible sympathy

Reflected from the years gone by, Of“Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, On human nature's second infancy. Blessing the bed she lies upon” ??

(1834. And sometimes, just as listening ends In slumber, with the cadence blends A dream of that low-warbled hymn

TO A YOUNG LADY, Which old folk, fondly pleased to trim WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKLamps of faith, now burning dim,

ING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY. Say that the Cherubs carved in stone,

DEAR Child of Nature, let them rail! When clouds gave way at dead of night

There is a nest in a green dale, And th' ancient church was fill'd with

A harbour and a hold; Used to sing in heavenly tone, [light,

Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see

Thy own heart-stirring days, and be 1 All our cats having been banished A light to young and old. the house, it was soon frequented by red. breasts. My sister, being then confined There, healthy as a shepherd boy, to her room by sickness, as, dear creature, and treading among flowers of joy she still is, had one that, without being caged, took up its abode with her, and at

Which at no season fade, 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 A Woman may be made. Notes.

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 coun-Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh, ties.” My own childhood was familiar A melancholy slave; with the same prayer, two lines of'it run- But an old age screne and bright, ning thus: "Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John,

And lovely as a Lapland night, Bless the bed that I lie on.

Shall lead thee to thy grave. [1803. HART-LEAP WELL. 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 pame 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 Hies,
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.

Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter lean'd,
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat;
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean'd,
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet.
Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch'd :
His nostril touch'd a spring beneath a hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetch'd
The waters of the spring were trembling still.
And now, too happy for repose or rest,
(Never had living man such joyful lot!)
Sir Walter walk'd all round, north, south, and west,
And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.
And, climbing up the hill, (it was at least
Four roods of sheer ascent,) Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.
Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, “ Till now
Such sight was never seen by human eyes:
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,
Down to the very fountain where he lies.
I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot,
And a small arbour, made for rural joy;
'Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,
A place of love for damsels that are coy.
A cunning artist will I have to frame
A basin for that fountain in the dell!
And they who do make mention of the same,
From this day forth, shall call it HART-LEAP WELL.
And, gallant Stag, to make thy praises known,
Another monument shall here be raised;
Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone,
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.
And, in the summer-time when days are long,
I will come hither with my Paramour;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
We will make merry in that pleasant bower.
Till the foundations of the mountains fail
My mansion with its arbour shall endure;-
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,
And them who dwell among the woods of Ure!”

Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead,
With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring.
Soon did the Knight perform what he had said;
And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.
Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steerd,
A cup of stone received the living well;
Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter rear'd,
And built a house of pleasure in the dell.
And, near the fountain, flowers of stature tall
With trailing plants and trees were intertwined;
Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.

And thither, when the summer days were long,
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
Made merriment within that pleasant bower.
The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
And his bones lie in his paternal vale.
But there is matter for a second rhyme,
And I to this would add another tale.

PART SECOND.

The moving accident is not my trade;
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts:
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell
Three aspens at three corners of a square ;
And one, not four yards distant, near a well.
What this imported I could ill divine:
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop,
I saw three pillars standing in a line,
The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top.
The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head;
Half wasted the square mound of tawny green ;
So that you just might say, as then I said,
“Here in old time the hand of man hath been."

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