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On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane ;-there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But 'tis good enough for thee.

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.

Ill befal the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours !
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 !

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,
Slip'st into thy sheltering hold;
Liveliest of the vernal train
When ye all are out again.

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.

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XII.

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.

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

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Short-lived likings may be bred
By a glance from fickle eyes ;
But true love is like the thread
Which the kindly wool supplies,
When the flocks are all at rest
Sleeping on the mountain's breast.

1812.

XVII.

HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS

FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS.

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,
Covered with leaves the little children,

So painfully in the wood ?
What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could’st pursue

A beautiful creature,
That is gentle by nature ?
Beneath the summer sky
From flower to flower let him fly;
'Tis all that he wishes to do.
The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness,
He is the friend of our summer gladness :
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the sunny weather,
And fly about in the air together!
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
A crimson as bright as thine own :
Would'st thou be happy in thy nest,
O pious Bird ! whom man loves best,
Love him, or leave him alone!

“ Who but hails the sight with pleasure
When the wings of genius rise,
Their ability to measure

With great enterprise ;
But in man was ne'er such daring
As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing
His brave spirit with the war in

The stormy skies !

Mark him, how his power he uses,
Lays it by, at will resumes !
Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses

Clouds and utter glooms !
There, he wheels in downward mazes;
Sunward now his flight he raises,
Catches fire, as seems, and blazes

With uninjured plumes !”

1806.

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What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could’st pursue

A beautiful creature,
That is gentle by nature ?
Beneath the summer sky
From flower to flower let him fly;
'Tis all that he wishes to do.
The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness,
He is the friend of our summer gladness :
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the sunny weather,
And fly about in the air together!
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
A crimson as bright as thine own:
Would'st thou be happy in thy nest,
O pious Bird! whom man loves best,
Love him, or leave him alone !

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XVI.

SONG FOR THE SPINNING

FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AM

VALKS OF WESTMORFI.

Ty two sister moorland rills

is a spot that seems to lie

flowerets of the hills, Lind to the sky. kna in this smooth and open dell There is a tempest-stricken tree;

vinner-stone by lightning cut, The kast stone of a lonely hut; Ant in this dell you see

thing no storm can e'er destroy, The shadow of a Danish Boy.

Swiftly turn the murmurit
Night has brought the well
When the weary fingers
Help, as if from faery 1
Dewy night o'ershad,
Turn the swift wheel

II.

Now, beneath the si
Couch the widely--
Ply the pleasan
For the spindle
Runs with spa
Gathering in

In clouds above, the lark is heard, But drops not here to earth for rest; Within this lonesome nook the bird Did never build her nest. No beast, no bird hath here his home; Bees, wafted on the breezy air, Pass high above those fragrant bells To other flowers :- to other dells Their burthens do they bear; The Danish Boy walks here alone : The lovely dell is all his own.

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