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* Waterton's Wanderings in South America.
To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler!—that love-prompted strain, ("Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond) Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege to sing All independent of the leafy spring.
How would it please old ocean to partake, With sailors longing for a breeze in vain, The harmony thy notes most gladly make Where earth resembles most his own domain : Urania's self might welcome with pleased ear These matins mounting towards her native sphere.
Chanter by heaven attracted, whom no bars To day-light known deter from that pursuit, 'T is well that some sage instinct, when the stars Come forth at evening, keeps thee still and mute; For not an eyelid could to sleep incline Wert thou among them, singing as they shine!
“Herf divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw
I could some instruction draw,
And raise pleasure to the height
Through the meanest object's sight.
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustelling;
By a daisy whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed;
Or a shady bush or tree;
She could more infuse in me
Than all nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.”
In youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy;
But now my own delights I make, –
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And gladly Nature's love partake
Of thee, sweet Daisy .
When Winter decks his few gray hairs,
Thee in the scanty wreath he wears;
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, That she may sun thee;
Whole summer fields are thine by right;
And Autumn, melancholy Wight!
Doth in thy crimson head delight
When rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
Thou greetest the Traveller in the lane;
If welcome thou countest it gain;
Thou art not daunted,
Nor carest if thou be set at naught:
And oft alone in nooks remote
We meet thee like a pleasant thought,
When such are wanted.
Be Violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;
Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews
Her head impearling;
Thou livest with less ambitious aim,
Yet hast not gone without thy fame;
Thou art indeed by many a claim
The Poet's darling.
If to a rock from rains he fly,
Or, some bright day of April sky,
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie
Near the green holly,
And wearily at length should fare;
He needs but look about, and there
Thou art!—a Friend at hand, to scare His melancholy.
A hundred times, by rock or bower,
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,
Have I derived from thy sweet power
Come steady love; some brief delight;
Some memory that had taken flight;
Some chime of fancy wrong or right;
Or stray invention.
if stately passions in me burn,
And one chance look to Thee should turn,
I drink out of an humbler urn
A lowlier pleasure;
The homely sympathy that heeds
The common life our nature breeds;
A wisdom fitted to the needs
Of hearts at leisure.
When, smitten by the morning ray,
I see thee rise, alert and gay,
Then, cheerful Flower my spirits play
With kindred gladness:
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.
And all day long I number yet,
All seasons through, another debt,
Which I, wherever thou art met,
To thee am owing;
An instinct call it, a blind sense;
A happy, genial influence,
Coming one knows not how, nor whence,
Nor whither going.
Child of the year! that round dost run
Thy course bold lover of the sun,
And cheerful when the days begun
As morning Leveret,
Thy long-lost praise" thou shalt regain;
Dear shalt thou be to future men
As in old time; — thou not in vain
Art Nature's favourite.
A whirl-BLAST from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound: Then —all at once the air was still, And showers of hail-stones pattered round Where leafless Oaks towered high above. I sat within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green; A fairer bower was never seen. From year to year the spacious floor With withered leaves is covered o'er, • And all the year the bower is green. But see! where'er the hail-stones drop The withered leaves all skip and hop; There's not a breeze — no breath of air– Yet here, and there, and everywhere Along the floor, beneath the shade By those embowering hollies made, The leaves in myriads jump and spring, As if with pipes and music rare Some Robin Good-fellow were there, And all those leaves, in festive glee, Were dancing to the minstrelsy.
BENEAth these fruit tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my Orchard-seat :
And birds and flowers once more to greet.
My last year's Friends together.
One have I marked, the happiest Guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to Thee, far above the rest
* See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours former's paid to this flower
But, exiled from Australian Bowers,
And singleness her lot,
She trills her song with tutored powers,
Or mocks each casual note.
No more of pity for regrets
With which she may have striven :
Now but in wantonness she frets,
Or spite, if cause be given;
Arch, volatile, a sportive Bird By social glee inspired; Ambitious to be seen or heard, And pleased to be admired :
II. This moss-lined shed, green, soft, and dry, Harbours a self-contented Wren, Not shunning man's abode, though shy, Almost as thought itself, of human ken.
Strange places, coverts unendeared
She never tried; the very nest
In which this Child of Spring was reared,
Is warmed, thro' winter, by her feathery breast.
To the bleak winds she sometimes gives
A slender unexpected strain;
That tells the Hermitess still lives,
Though she appear not, and be sought in vain.
Say, Dora ! tell me by yon placid Moon,
If called to choose between the favoured pair,
Which would you be, – the Bird of the Saloon,
By Lady fingers tended with nice care,
Caressed, applauded, upon dainties fed,
Or Nature's DARRLING of this mossy Slied ?
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.
'T is the little Celandine.
Eyes of some men travel far
For the finding of a star;
Up and down the heavens they go,
Men that keep a mighty rout!
I'm as great as they, I trow,
Since the day I found thee out,
Little flower' — I'll make a stir,
Like a great Astronomer.