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 risen 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-pots 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 sheltered hold:
Bright as any of the train
When ye all are out again.

Thou art not beyond the moon,
But a thing" beneath our shoon :'
Let, as old Magellan did,
Others roam about the sea;
Build who will a pyramid;
Praise it is enough for me,
If there be but three or four
Who will love my little flower.

VII.

THE WATERFALL AND THE EGLANTINE.

"BEGONE, thou fond presumptuous elf,"
Exclaimed a thundering voice,

"Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self
Between me and my choice!"

*Scotticè, shoes.

A falling Water swoln with snows
Thus spake to a poor Brier-rose,
That, all bespattered with his foam,
And dancing high, and dancing low,
Was living, as a child might know,
In an unhappy home.

"Dost thou presume my course to block !
Off, off! or, puny thing!

I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock

To which thy fibres cling."

The flood was tyrannous and strong;

The patient Brier suffered long,

Nor did he utter groan or sigh,

Hoping the danger would be past:
But, seeing no relief, at last
He ventured to reply..

"Ah!" said the Brier, "blame me not;

Why should we dwell in strife?

We who in this, our natal spot,

Once lived a happy life!

You stirred me on my rocky bed

What pleasure through my veins you spread!

The summer long, from day to day,

My leaves you freshened and bedewed;

Nor was it common gratitude

That did your cares repay.

"When Spring came on with bud and bell,

Among these rocks did I

Before you hang my wreaths, to tell
That gentle days were nigh!

And, in the sultry summer hours,

I sheltered you with leaves and flowers;

And in my leaves-now shed and gone,
The linnet lodged, and for us two
Chanted his pretty songs, when you
Had little voice or none.

"But now proud thoughts are in your treast―

What grief is mine you see.

Ah! would you think, even yet how blest

Together we might be!

Though of both leaf and flower bereft,

Some ornaments to me are left

Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,

With which I, in my humble way,
Would deck you many a winter's day,
A happy Eglantine.

What more he said I cannot tell :
The torrent thundered down the dell
With unabating haste:

I listened, nor aught else could hear;

The Brier quaked-and much I fear
Those accents were his last.

VIII.

THE OAK AND THE BROOM.

A PASTORAL.

HIS simple truths did Andrew glean
Beside the babbling rills;

A careful student he had been
Among the woods and hills.

One winter's night, when through the trees
The wind was thundering, on his knees
His youngest born did Andrew hold:
And while the rest a ruddy quire,
Were seated round their blazing fire,
This tale the shepherd told :-

"I saw a crag, a lofty stone

As ever tempest beat!

Out of its head an Oak had grown,

A Broom out of its feet.

The time was March, a cheerful noon

The thaw-wind with the breath of June,

Breathed gently from the warm south-west:
When, in a voice sedate with age,
This Oak, a giant and a sage,

His neighbour thus addressed :—

'Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay, Along this mountain's edge,

The frost hath wrought both night and day,

Wedge driving after wedge.

Look up! and think, above your head

What trouble surely will be bred;
Last night I heard a crash-'tis true,
The splinters took another road—
I see them yonder-what a load
For such a thing as you!

'You are preparing, as before,
To deck your slender shape;
And yet, just three years back-
You had a strange escape.

-no more-

Down from yon cliff a fragment broke;
It came, you know, with fire and smoke,
And hitherward it bent its way:

This ponderous block was caught by me,
And o'er your head, as you may see,
'Tis hanging to this day!

"The thing had better been asleep,
Whatever thing it were,

Or breeze, or bird, or dog, or sheep,
That first did plant you there.
For you and your green twigs decoy
The little witless shepherd-boy

To come and slumber in your bower;
And, trust me, on some sultry noon,

Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!
Will perish in one hour.

'From me this friendly warning take'-
The Broom began to doze,

And thus, to keep herself awake,
Did gently interpose:

My thanks for your discourse are due;
That it is true, and more than true,
I know, and I have known it long;
Frail is the bond by which we hold
Our being, be we young or old,
Wise, foolish, weak, or strong.

'Disasters, do the best we can,
Will reach both great and small;
And he is oft the wisest man
Who is not wise at all.

For me, why should I wish to roam ?

This spot is my paternal home,

It is my pleasant heritage;

My father, many a happy year,

Here spread his careless blossoms, here

Attained a good old age.

'E'en such as his may be my lot.
What cause have I to haunt
My heart with terrors? Am I not
In truth a favoured plant!

On me such bounty Summer pours,
That I am covered o'er with flowers;
And, when the frost is in the sky,
My branches are so fresh and gay
That you might look at me and say,
This plant can never die.

The butterfly, all green and gold,
To me hath often flown,
Here in my blossoms to behold
Wings lovely as his own.

When grass is chill with rain or dew,
Beneath my shade the mother ewe
Lies with her infant lamb; I see
The love they to each other make,

And the sweet joy which they partake,
It is a joy to me.'

"Her voice was blithe, her heart was light; The Broom might have pursued

Her speech, until the stars of night
Their journey had renewed:

But in the branches of the Oak
Two ravens now began to croak
Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;
And to her own green bower the breeze
That instant brought two stripling bees,
To rest and murmur there.

"One night, my children, from the North
There came a furious blast;

At break of day I ventured forth,
And near the cliff I passed.

The storm had fallen upon the Oak,
And struck him with a mighty stroke,

And whirled, and whirled him far away;
And in one hospitable cleft

The little careless Broom was left

To live for many a day."

IX.

THE REDBREAST AND 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, whom by some name or other,
All men who know call thee their brother,
The darling of children and men?
Could Father Adam * open his 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,

Did cover with leaves the little children

So painfully in the wood?

* Paradise Lost, Book XI., where Adam points out to Eve the ominous sign of the eagle chasing "two birds of gayest plume," and the gentle hart and hind pursued by their enemy.