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Nor less the garden's sweet domain,

The mossy heath or verdant mead, The tow'ring hill, the level plain,

And fields with blooming life o'erspread.



The Spring is come, the violet's gone,
The first-born child of the early sun;
With us she is but a winter flower,
The snow on the hills cannot blast her bower;
And she lifts up her dewy eye of blue,
To the youngest sky of the self-same hue.

But when the spring comes with her host
Of flowers, that flower, beloved the most,
Shrinks from the crowd, that may confuse
Her heavenly odours and virgin hues.

Pluck the others, but still remember
Their herald, out of dire December;
The morning star of all the flowers,
The pledge of daylight's lengthen'd hours,
And 'mid the roses, ne'er forget
The virgin, virgin violet.

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Bright flower, whose home is every where'
A pilgrim bold in Nature's care,
And oft, 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 through!

And wherefore? Man is soon deprest;
A thoughtless thing who, once unblest,
Does little on his memory rest,

Or on his reason:
But thou wouldst teach him how to find
A shelter under every wind ;
A hope for times that are unkind,

And every season.



On! how could fancy crown with thee

In ancient days the god of wine,
And bid thee at the banquet be

Companion of the vine !
Ivy! thy home is where each sound

Of revelry hath long been o'er,
Where song and beaker once went round,
But now are known no more.

Where long-fallen gods recline,
There the place is thine.

The Roman on his battle plains,

Where kings before his eagles bent, With thee, amidst exulting strains,

Shadow'd the victor's tent; Though shining there in deathless green,

Triumphally thy boughs might wave,
Better thou lovest the silent scene
Around the victor's grave.

Urn and sculpture half-divine
Yield their place to thine.

The cold halls of the regal dead,

Where lone the Italian sunbeams dwell, Where hollow sounds the lightest treadIvy! they know thee well! And far above the festal vine,

Thou wavest where once proud banners hung, Where mouldering turrets crest the Rhine, - The Rhine, still fresh and young !

Tower and rampart o'er the Rhine,
Ivy! all are thine!

High from the fields of air look down

Those eyries of a vanish'd race, Where harp, and battle, and renown,

Have pass’d, and left no trace.
But thou art there! serenely bright,

Meeting the mountain storms with bloom,
Thou that wilt climb the loftiest height,
Or crown the lowliest tomb!

Ivy, Ivy! all are thine,
Palace, hearth, and shrine.

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'Tis still the same; our pilgrim tread

O’er classic plains, through deserts free. On the mute path of ages fled,

Still meets decay and thee. And still let man his fabrics rear,

August in beauty, stern in power,
-Days pass—thou Ivy never sere !
And thou shalt have thy dower.

All are thine, or must be thine !
-Temple, pillar, shrine!

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I WANDER'd lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hil.s,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle in the Milky-way,
They stretch'd in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay :
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company;
I gazed-and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought I
For oft when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

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