VII

""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

Spread here his careless blossoms, here
Attained a good old age.

VIII

"Even 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.

IX

"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."

X

'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, or murmur there.

70

80

90

100

XI

'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.'

VI

TO A SEXTON

ET thy wheel-barrow alone

LET

ΙΙΟ

1800

Wherefore, Sexton, piling still

In thy bone-house bone on bone?

'Tis already like a hill

In a field of battle made,

Where three thousand skulls are laid;

These died in peace each with the other,-
Father, sister, friend, and brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!

From this platform, eight feet square,

Take not even a finger-joint:

Andrew's whole fireside is there.

Here, alone, before thine eyes,

Simon's sickly daughter lies,

From weakness now and pain defended,

Whom he twenty winters tended.

Look but at the gardener's pride-
How he glories, when he sees
Roses, lilies, side by side,
Violets in families!

By the heart of Man, his tears,

By his hopes and by his fears,

Thou, too heedless, art the Warden
Of a far superior garden.

Thus then, each to other dear,

Let them all in quiet lie,

Andrew there, and Susan here,

Neighbours in mortality.

ΙΟ

20

And, should I live through sun and rain
Seven widowed years without my Jane,
O Sexton, do not then remove her,

Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover!

30

Thee Winter in the garland wears

That thinly decks his few grey

hairs ;

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 greet'st the traveller in the lane;
Pleased at his greeting thee again ;

Yet nothing daunted,

Nor grieved if thou be set at nought:
And oft alone in nooks remote

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
When such are wanted.

1 His Muse.

1799

ΤΟ

20

Be violets in their secret mews

The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;
Proud be the rose, with rains and dews
Her head impearling,

Thou liv'st 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
Some apprehension;

Some 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.

Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,
When thou art up, 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 pleasant course,-when day's begun
As ready to salute the sun

As lark or leveret,

Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;
Nor be less dear to future men

Than in old time;—thou not in vain

Art Nature's favourite.1

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1802

VIII

TO THE SAME FLOWER

W

ITH little here to do or see

Of things that in the great world be,

Daisy! again I talk to thee,

For thou art worthy,

Thou unassuming Common-place
Of Nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a grace
Which Love makes for thee!

Oft on the dappled turf at ease

I sit, and play with similes,

Loose types of things through all degrees,

Thoughts of thy raising:

And many a fond and idle name

I give to thee, for praise or blame,
As is the humour of the game,

While I am gazing.

A nun demure of lowly port;

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
In thy simplicity the sport

Of all temptations;

ΤΟ

20

1 See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower.