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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
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 \
 
 FLOWERS OF EBOR.
 
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 FLOWERS OF EBOR 
 
 tJocm!^* 
 
 BY THOMAS CROSSLEY. 
 
 •Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, 
 To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts. " 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMAN 
 AND LEYLAND AND SON, HALIFAX. 
 
 M DCCC XXXVII.
 
 ■pR 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Some of the little pieces in the following collection have 
 already appeared, (anonymously or otherwise,) in different 
 periodicals of the day ; and the author feigns not to conceal 
 the satisfaction he feels at the favourable reception they have 
 unexpectedly met with. He has, in consequence, ventured to 
 republish a selection from those already known, — together with 
 many others, — the composition of which has been the solace 
 and amusement of his leisure hours. 
 
 The Author is perfectly aware that poetry must be of a 
 very superior order to attract any considerable degree of 
 Public attention at the present day, and in the present 
 advanced state of literature. 
 
 824018
 
 VI. 
 
 To those, however, who can relish the simpler and less 
 elevated excursions of fancy ; — to those who can appreciate 
 the more unobtrusive scenes of Nature ; and who are alive to 
 feelings to which the contemplation of her inexhaustible 
 treasures give rise, — and who love to ramble and to meditate 
 amid the wild flowers of her universal garden, the Author is 
 willing to anticipate that his little volume will not be al- 
 together uninteresting ; — to whom, and to his immediate 
 friends it is with every kindly feeling, and with due deference, 
 submitted. 
 
 T. C. 
 
 Ovenden, near Halifax, 
 January 20th. 1837-
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 To Poesy I 
 
 First Impressions 3 
 
 The Flower Girl 6 
 
 The Village Herbalist 8 
 
 The Dead Robin 14 
 
 May 20 
 
 The Expired Furlough 22 
 
 To a Winter Flower 25 
 
 The Thistle, a Fable 26 
 
 My Native Vale 29 
 
 The ConvohTilus 32 
 
 Midnight Music 34 
 
 Harebells 36 
 
 To an Ancient War-Spur 37 
 
 The Poet's Plea 39 
 
 The White Rose 40 
 
 A Father's Address to his Infant Bov 43
 
 VIU. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 To a Solitary Daisy 45 
 
 The Muse of Wordswortli 46 
 
 / On Gathering a Sprig of Laurel at Bums' Monument, 
 
 / Dumfries 48 
 
 The Child of Poesy 49 
 
 On the Spring 50 
 
 To a Child Playing with its Shadow 51 
 
 To a Botanist, with a Lily of the Valley. 53 
 
 The Comet i>5 
 
 The Rover 57 
 
 To the Evening Star b^ 
 
 Christmas Customs. No. L An Invitation 61 
 
 Christmas Customs. No. 2. The Sweepers 64 
 
 Christmas Customs. No. 3. New Year's Morn %^ 
 
 The Shell Gatherer 68 
 
 The Sunflower 74 
 
 The Soldier's Lament 75 
 
 To my old Lilac Tree 77 
 
 Ballad 79 
 
 The Tulip and the Rose, a Fable 80 
 
 On the Death of Coleridge 85 
 
 The Blue-bell 86 
 
 The Bird and Flower 87 
 
 Spring 88 
 
 Summer 90 
 
 Autunm 94 
 
 A Winter-sigh Qb
 
 / 
 
 IX. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Arion's Grave ^"i 
 
 The Lily of the Valley 100 
 
 To a Cannon-shot, Found on Marston Moor 101 
 
 The \^'aggoner and the Goat, a True Story 104 
 
 To a Brazilian Butterfly 106 
 
 My Home ! My Native Home ! 107 
 
 Reminiscences, written in a Play-ground 110 
 
 To the Herb Yarrow 114 
 
 Thy Life is a Leaf 115 
 
 To Flowers, seen blooming on an Infant's Grave 118 
 
 The Christian's Death 119 
 
 The Cuckoo 120 
 
 Song to Winter 123 
 
 The Poet's Grave 124 
 
 To Poesy. On the approach of Spring 125 
 
 Finis. Written on the last page of a Young Lady's Album 127 
 
 On Gathering the Fading Flowers of the Forget-me-not .. . 129 
 
 To the Evening Breeze 130 
 
 The Wall-flower i32 
 
 Why should we sigh ? 133 
 
 The Sweet-Briar 134 
 
 To a Snow-flake 1 36 
 
 A Father's Lament 137 
 
 The Emigrant's Farewell 139 
 
 Winter and Spring. An Apologue 14) 
 
 To Bernard Barton 1 45 
 
 The Yew-Tree Wreath 146
 
 PAGE. 
 
 On Gathenng a Primrose 147 
 
 A Benediction to my Infant Daughter 148 
 
 The Muse 149 
 
 The Blasted Dahlia 150 
 
 To an Old Tree loj 
 
 The Sleeping Infant 1 54 
 
 To a Rosebud 156 
 
 The Snowdrop 157 
 
 Summer's Warning 159 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 The Spirit of the Sea Shell 1 63 
 
 A Moorland Cottage 1 64 
 
 A Moorland Cottage (continued) 1 65 
 
 To Christmas 166 
 
 To Christmas (continued) 167 
 
 Written in the Vale of Bolton : — 
 
 No. 1, The Priory 168 
 
 No. 2, The Strid 169 
 
 No. 3, To the Wharfe 170 
 
 On Thomson's Death 171 
 
 To John Clare, the Northamptonshire Peasant 1 72 
 
 To Helpstone Cottage, the birth place of John Clare 173 
 
 Cottage Window Flowers 1 74 
 
 Spring Morning 175 
 
 To Wordsworth 176
 
 XI. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 To Southey 177 
 
 Idle Thoughts - 1/8 
 
 The Threatening Shower 179 
 
 The Withered Nosegay 180 
 
 A May Picture 181 
 
 VVritten in Cumberland : — 
 
 No. 1, Derwent Lake, by Moonlight 182 
 
 No. 2, Lowdore - 183 
 
 No. 3, The Rainbow, seen from the Mountains 184 
 
 Birksdale, in Autumn 185 
 
 The Fairie Child, a Legend of Birksdale 186 
 
 The Fairie Child (continued) 187 
 
 The Fairie Child (continued) 188 
 
 To the Morning Star 189 
 
 To the River Calder, written on Skircoat Rocks 190 
 
 To the River Calder (continued) 191 
 
 Flowers 192 
 
 To the Stars 193 
 
 To the River Swale, composed near Richmond Castle, 
 
 Yorkshire 194 
 
 To Lilies of the Valley, gathered in Shrogs Wood, Ovenden 195 
 
 The Redbreast 196 
 
 Evening Birds 197 
 
 My Cottage 198
 
 FLOWERS OF EBOR. 
 
 ^0 t^oesg. 
 
 Thou Queen of Song, — fair Poesy ! 
 
 Thou art a njonph divine, 
 Sent down to cheer man's thorny way. 
 
 Exalt him, and refine. 
 
 Minstrel of heaven ! thy golden lyre 
 With thrilling chords can flow, 
 
 Which touch the human heart with fire. 
 And bid its raptures glow. 
 
 Thy magic song Care's spell can break, 
 And Hope's bright halo shed, — 
 
 Transform the tear on sorrow's cheek 
 To tears of joy instead.
 
 TO POESY. 
 
 The hills, the vales, the woods, the skies. 
 
 Old ocean, in his rage, — 
 These at thy beck in beauty rise, 
 
 Sweet mirror'd on thy page. 
 
 And thou can'st strike those thrUline: strinss. 
 
 For which vain man has striven ; 
 And lend to him an eagle's wings 
 
 Which lift his soul to heaven. 
 
 Then, reckless what the Fates hold forth. 
 
 Or poverty can bring. 
 Above the sordid ways of earth 
 
 He soars on joyous wing. 
 
 The woodlark, in his wiry dome, 
 
 Dreams not of ills and wrong. 
 For nature, in his captive home. 
 
 Has warm'd him into song. 
 
 The prisoner thus, with heart elate, 
 Sweet nymph, when blest with thee. 
 
 Bears up against the frowns of fate. 
 In his captivity.
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 Subdued and weak, oft weary toil 
 
 Upon thy breast reposes ; 
 Thou cheerest sickness with a smile. 
 
 Strewing his path with roses. 
 
 But, O, to roam abroad with thee 
 
 Mid nature's vast domain. 
 Free, as the mountain bird is free, 
 
 While health fills every vein ! 
 
 To brighter hopes thou canst give birth. 
 
 Bid fairer prospects I'ise, 
 And lift our souls from sordid earth. 
 
 Thou daughter of the skies ! 
 
 jFirst Imprfsst'ons. 
 
 Where is that little spot of earth 
 We think the sweetest and the best ? 
 
 'Tis that which owned us at our birth. 
 And where our early footsteps prest 
 Around our native home,
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 No matter if the moorland wild, 
 
 Where furze-tufts tempt the wandering bee, 
 Met thy first glance — a careless child, 
 
 That spot an Eden is to thee. 
 In after years, I ween. 
 
 Or if thy early home is found 
 
 Where blue-bells deck the summer hill ; 
 The holly-lanes which thou hast wound 
 
 In idle strolls, are soothing still 
 In manhood or in age. 
 
 Upon my native village green 
 
 I love to muse in pensive thought ; 
 
 On woodland banks I love to lean. 
 
 Where wild- wood strawberries once I sought, 
 And nought of grief I knew. 
 
 I sometimes pass the aged tree 
 
 Which still my rude initials shows. 
 
 Whose trunk I often clomb with glee 
 For acorn cups, or archery bows 
 For mimic Sherwood feats.
 
 FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 And O, I would not see applied 
 The fatal axe, — I would not see 
 
 The rind stript from thy hoary side ; — 
 No ! only time should injure thee. 
 For all that wealth could give. 
 
 I often stop and gaze around. 
 
 And seat me 'neath the hawthorne shade. 
 Where I my wild flower nosegays bound. 
 
 And oft my chervil bagpipes made 
 In May's delicious hours. 
 
 But where is he who loved so well 
 In all my childish pranks to share .'' 
 
 Alas ! the churchyard stone can tell 
 
 How died my earliest friend, and where. 
 In childhood's opening day. 
 
 Now twice ten years have passed away 
 Since he beneath yon turf was laid ; 
 
 And his memorial tempts my stay. 
 Where oft in infancy I strayed 
 To lisp poor Edward's name. 
 
 B 2
 
 6 THE FLOWER GIRL. 
 
 May no rude hand that stone remove. 
 
 Till time shall close this tear-dimm'd eye ; 
 
 To me it Avhispers peace and love, 
 
 And happiest days and hours gone by. 
 And innocence and joy. 
 
 Whate'er to childhood is allied. 
 
 Makes manhood's breast with ardour burn ; 
 WQiate'er of circumstance betide. 
 
 To early days and scenes we turn, 
 And sigh they are no more ! 
 
 Have you seen, when Aurora the east is adorning, 
 Have you seen a young maiden, (unnoticed by few,) 
 
 With her basket of nosegays, as fresh as the morning, 
 Hie o'er yon green meadows, yet sprinkled with dew .'' 
 
 Tho' fortune frowns on her, and want may be pressing, 
 Her heart seems as happy and light as the gale ; 
 
 No father has she — yet a mother's fond blessing 
 Goes with her each morn from her cot in the dale.
 
 THE FLOWER GIRL. 7 
 
 Have you seen the young rose, when its bud is ex- 
 panding ? 
 'Tis an emblem of her, nor more fair to the view : 
 Have you seen the fresh violet with pearl-drops depend- 
 ing ? 
 It is not more bright than her eye's lovely blue. 
 
 Her pinks and her roses, bound neatly with rushes. 
 How sweet their perfume ! and how fair to the eye ! 
 
 But neither can vie with her cheeks' modest blushes. 
 When she curt'sies and asks the young stranger to 
 buy ! 
 
 May the heart, lovely maid, that can ever deceive thee — 
 First steal thy affections in life's early hours. 
 
 And to the wide world then unfeelingly leave thee — 
 May that heart never prosper, but fade like thy 
 flowers !
 
 S^c TiliUQt p,txhtiU&U 
 
 A RURAL SKETCH. 
 
 In yonder rural cot with white-wash'd walls. 
 Before whose front the spear-leaf 'd ivy falls ; 
 And o'er jvhose lowly roof, with wheat-straw laid. 
 The aged elder throws a partial shade ; 
 And where the houseleek in a scanty soU, 
 Luxuriant spreads without the peasant's toil — 
 Where rude-wrought pales the garden's circuit 'close. 
 Where bloom the wallflower and the damask rose — 
 Where woodbines round the trellis' d windows twist — 
 There dwells the aged Village Herbalist. 
 
 A neat old man, with silver}^ locks, and which 
 Twice forty winters have combined to bleach ; 
 Yet manly vigor stUl his limbs retain. 
 And healthful blood flows fresh thro' every vein : 
 His dark eye still retains its youtliful fire. 
 Nor does it yet Art's magic aid require :
 
 THE VILLAGE HERBALIST. 9 
 
 Upon his cheek still plays the rose of youth. 
 
 And in his look, shine health, content, and truth. 
 
 In early years sweet Temperance was his guest, 
 
 He learnt her precepts, and was douhly blest. 
 
 He saw how youth when in its brightest morn. 
 
 By Pleasure's latent sting was pierced and torn — 
 
 The self-bought miseries in the stage of Man — 
 
 His life embitter'd when scarce yet began : 
 
 He mark'd, alas! how many deeply drank 
 
 At Pleasure's stream, and in the current sank. 
 
 And hence he shunn'd it — shunn'd youth's giddy maze, 
 
 And health and \agor crown his latter days. 
 
 Thro' life has Labor with enjoin'd command 
 
 Requir'd her portion from his willing hand ; 
 
 And from her lips this honest truth he leam'd, 
 
 ' Sweet is the bread which industry has eam'd.' 
 
 Yet Science often blest his leisure hours, 
 
 Lighten'd his toil, and spread his path with flowers ; 
 
 Nature to him her ample stores unveiled. 
 
 On hill and valley, wood and verdant field ; 
 
 A rich exhaustless treasure, pure — refined. 
 
 Was spread abroad for his inquiring mind — 
 
 Herbs, plants, and flowers, which daily met his sight, 
 
 Became his favorite study and delight ;
 
 10 THE VILLAGE HERBALIST. 
 
 From thence he learn'd, by precepts safe and sure, 
 Man's miseries to relieve if not to cure. 
 
 Enter his cottage, — ^you will not regi-et 
 Of having there your wandering footsteps set ; 
 From filth and dust his humble cot is free, 
 (A faithful wife, — one daughter too has he,) 
 Each article of furniture — each room. 
 Feels daily the effects of brush and broom ; 
 Chair, chest or table, in due place appears, 
 " And mocks the weakness of these latter years !" 
 For each of sound old English oak is form'd — 
 By use, and Time's corroding hand unharm'd. 
 And on their fronts appear in many a part. 
 Strange hieroglyphics carv'd with curious art. 
 An old barometer, tho' trusty still. 
 Arrests the eye, above the window-sill ; 
 Where in a fair and graceful row are seen 
 Gay flowering plant, and pleasant evergreen. 
 Resting their stems on many a friendly prop — 
 Rambhng luxuriant to the window top. 
 And throwing, as the east sun glances o'er. 
 Their shadows on the neatly sanded floor.
 
 THE VILLAGE HERBALIST. 11 
 
 Above the ancient ingle, stretching wide, 
 In sable frame, which spans from side to side, 
 A Map of Europe, yellow'd o'er with age. 
 Does oft the owner's curious eye engage : 
 On either margin, trac'd by graphic skill, 
 A view of city, port, or town does fill 
 Its destin'd place, and at the top thereon, 
 Some battle dread, by British valor won ! 
 Upon the wall, fixt slightly to with tacks. 
 Appears a file of by-gone almanacks. 
 And on their well-rang'd columns does appear 
 FuU many a note penn'd by the aged seer. 
 
 Beneath his roof, in bags of sober brown. 
 And label' d with devices of his own. 
 Hangs many a far-sought herb of virtue rare, 
 Tied up to shield it from the dust and air. 
 Strong scented rue, and antifebrile balm, 
 (The heated blood and fever's rage to calm ;) 
 Of horehound, hyssop, cull'd with careful hand. 
 An ample store is always at command ; 
 And other well- dried herbs of nameless use. 
 And which his own neat garden does produce.
 
 12 THE VILLAGE HERBALIST. 
 
 But chief from woods and wilds he does collect 
 His simples, when in summer richness deck'd ; 
 Full many a plant, fair Nature's humblest child. 
 Which blooms unnotic'd in the pathless wild 
 By him is priz'd, and oft with desperate knife 
 He robs the blossom of its transient life. 
 Gay purple betony, and golden-rod. 
 He crops in plenty from the summer sod ; 
 And avens, blooming in its yellow pride. 
 And rambhng ale-hoof from the mountain side ; 
 And sweet valerian, (chiefly root and seed,) 
 He seeks and gathers in the distant mead ; 
 And other plants, altho' unknown to Fame, 
 Full well he knows the virtue and the name. 
 
 When glowing Summer o'er the landscape reigns. 
 And herbs are blossom'd on the hills and plains ; 
 When Flora revels in her wildest dress, 
 (To Taste's sweet eye the pitch of loveliness,) 
 In unfrequented haunts of shadowy green. 
 Full oft our rural Herbalist is seen. 
 
 Observe him 'midst the bracken'd waste or wood. 
 Or by the margin of some rushy flood ;
 
 THE VILLAGE HERBALIST. 13 
 
 Mark well his dress — his hat of monstrous brim, — 
 (For what is fashion's flaunting maze to him !) 
 His weU-sav'd coat — plann'd in the days of yore. 
 Of. ancient cut, and scallop'd off before, 
 Its roomy sleeves, its hue of rusty brown, 
 With ample buttons larger than a crown ; — 
 Observe the ponderous buckle on his shoe. 
 Which keeps all safe from wet and searching dew ; 
 While one companion, yet a trusty friend, 
 Upon his summer rambles does attend — 
 His well-us'd volume, where Art's magic aid. 
 Has Nature's hues and tints so well pourtray'd ; 
 A faithful guide ! for oft his stedfast look 
 Compares some new-found blossom with the book. 
 Thus having cuU'd his simples, fresh and gay. 
 With joyous smile he treads his homeward way. 
 And on the sunny bank beside his door. 
 With careful hand outspreads his herby store ; 
 Fierce darts the summer sun-beam, and anon 
 The well dried treasure rustles in the sun ; 
 Then 'neath his roof it waits — (an humble show,) 
 The supplicating voice of pain and woe.
 
 14 THE DEAD ROBIN. 
 
 Happy old man I shall s^Yelling Pride disdain 
 The trivial art to heal thy neighbour's pain ? 
 Ah no ! the rustic invalid can tell 
 How oft thou'st kindly broken Sickness' spell ; 
 Restor'd the faded rose to Beauty's cheek — 
 Giv'n hope, and balm, and sinews to the weak ; — 
 May Heaven still lengthen out thy long career, 
 Belov'd and useful in thy narrow sphere. 
 
 S'ije StaU ilolim. 
 
 'Tw^AS Winter, and upon the lea 
 
 The snow-drift deep and deeper grew ; 
 
 And hid each green blade, shrub and tree — 
 Keen and more keen the north- wind blew 
 
 The Cotter clos'd his humble door, 
 
 And wish'd that Winter's reign were o'er.
 
 THE DEAD ROBIN. 15 
 
 'Twas then a bird, with ruddy front, 
 
 And coal black eye, and pinched with cold. 
 
 Came to our cot as he was wont. 
 
 For, oh ! our friendship had grown old ; 
 
 And he was tame and docile too. 
 
 No harm from me he felt or knew. 
 
 He'd hop around the window-sill, 
 
 And he would perch upon my thumb ; 
 
 And from my hand, with busy bill. 
 Would often peck the seed or crumb ; 
 
 For well he knew when I was near 
 
 No harm the minstrel had to fear. 
 
 And when his humble meal was o'er. 
 And when his wants were satisfied. 
 
 When he had shar'd the welcome store 
 From what my humble board supplied. 
 
 Full well he knew the lattice, where 
 
 He might again be free as air.
 
 16 THE DEAD ROBIN. 
 
 But dailv toil call'd me awav. 
 And seldom was I seen at home. 
 
 Unless at morn or noon, each day, 
 
 A\Tien he with fluttering wing would come 
 
 But if he came, and saw not me. 
 
 He would not enter there — not he ! 
 
 So, oft without the window's edge, 
 I plac'd the pulpy bread or seed. 
 
 And he would nestle on the ledge. 
 And of the welcome beverage feed. 
 
 And chirping round would seem to bless 
 
 The hand out-stretch'd to his distress. 
 
 I lov'd him weU, and well I might. 
 He was the gentlest of his kind. 
 
 His eye and bosom seem'd so bright — 
 His like I never vet could find ! 
 
 He was the same (in Spring's soft houi%) 
 
 That fill'd with song my woodbine-bower.
 
 THE DEAD ROBIN. 17 
 
 One night — ah well that night I know ! 
 
 Bright heam'd the fiery stars on high, 
 And keen the northern blast did blow, 
 
 And thro' the crevic'd pane did sigh — 
 Woe was the wanderer's lot, who might 
 Plod o'er the snow-clad moor that night ! 
 
 That night, while wrapt in calm repose, 
 I mus'd on scenes of sad disti'ess. 
 
 And oft my bosom heav'd for those 
 
 ^^^lom Fortune's freak had favor'd less ; 
 
 And as their wants my feelings stirr'd, 
 
 I thought upon my minstrel-bird ! 
 
 How far'd he in a night so bleak ? 
 
 \MTiere would the hapless sufferer flee r 
 "WTiat kindly shelter could he seek ? 
 
 All leafless was each bush and tree ; 
 The boughs above, the grass below, 
 Were mantled o'er with crimphng snow. 
 
 c 2
 
 18 THE DEAD ROBIN. 
 
 At morn, upon the window- stone, 
 Untouch'd, the scatter'd seed I saw. 
 
 And, searching round, the bird alone. 
 Lay stiff and hfeless on the snow ! 
 
 For in the night the bird had died — 
 
 His wings were folded to his side. 
 
 His Uttle limbs were stiif and cold. 
 His breast had lost its glossy hue ; 
 
 A film his dark eye did enfold. 
 
 On which was spread the frozen dew : 
 
 His biU was closed — his slender feet 
 
 Had ceas'd to move, — his heart to beat ! 
 
 In vain with genial warmth I strove 
 His breast to move, and life restore, 
 
 But ah ! that voice which swell' d the grove 
 Was doom'd, alas, to chant no more ! 
 
 His pangs were past, — and even yet 
 
 My heart will not the scene forget !
 
 THE DEAD ROBIN. 19 
 
 The world may laugh, and wonder much 
 
 That trifles thus bewail' d can be ; 
 But did sweet Pity ever touch 
 
 The hearts of those who censure me ? 
 Did sympathy ne'er force its way ? — 
 A bird can feel as well as they. 
 
 Perchance they'll say the orphan's tale 
 By me would surely be unheard ; 
 
 Altho' with grief I seem to wail 
 The fate of my poor minstrel-bird ; 
 
 It is not so — proud world forbear 
 
 To wrong me thus, and force the tear. 
 
 To ease distress and paly want, 
 To calm the hapless orphan's woe. 
 
 My hand shall aye the pittance gi-ant 
 Far as my humble means will go : 
 
 Then chide me not that you have heard 
 
 The fate of my poor winter-bird.
 
 i%1ain 
 
 The month of May ! the month of May ! 
 
 How sweet thou wert to me 
 In childhood's long-remembered day. 
 
 When flowers were in their infancy ! 
 When skies were blue, and bee and bird 
 With song our childish feelings stirr'd ; 
 And cuckoo's shout such charms possess'd 
 As seldom enter manhood's breast. 
 
 The month of May ! the bride of Spring ! 
 
 Thou parent of each bliss ! 
 When cowslips dewy fragrance fling. 
 
 And starry primroses ; 
 And hawthorns down the winding lane 
 Are crown' d with blooms to mark her reign ; 
 And blackbirds pour the votive lay,.^- 
 And larks uprise on pinions gay.
 
 MAY. 21 
 
 The month of May — fair childhood's joy ! 
 
 When o'er the wild he wanders free. 
 Chasing the yellow butterfly. 
 
 Or honey- seeking bee : 
 Climbing for woodbird's nest with glee 
 The rustling bough and holly tree ; 
 Now gathering flowers and honied leaves. 
 With which the May-Day wreath he weaves. 
 
 The month of May ! 'tis boyhood's home ! — 
 The wood, the stream, the vale, or hill, 
 
 Whene'er he finds a will to roam 
 He finds a home of transport still ! 
 
 Now on the flower-bank listless laid. 
 
 Or wandering 'neath the woodland shade ; 
 
 Now searching wide the chervil'd mead 
 
 For tnmipet tubes or rustic reed. 
 
 The month of May ! Health's joyous queen ! 
 
 In youth ere thy bright reign was ended. 
 The hoary tree we've sought with glee 
 
 Which royal Charles defended ! 
 O, then we climb'd the stately oak. 
 And down the leafy branches broke,
 
 22 MAY. 
 
 And round our brows, with raptures young, 
 The ghttering trophies proudly hung. — 
 
 Thou month of May ! thou'rt here again ! 
 
 Thy wand is waved, thy flowers arise ; 
 Once more burst forth the woodland strain, 
 
 Thy spangled fields and cloudless skies. — 
 Not flowers which now their charms unfold ; 
 Nor oak-leaves gilt with glittering gold ; 
 Nor song of bird, nor gushing stream. 
 Can wake again that rapturous dream, — 
 That dream which crown'd in magic ring 
 With golden flowers our boyhood's Spring ! 
 
 STfjc ^xpixttt ^ttilougi). 
 
 'TwAS on a rosv morn in Spring, 
 
 And brightly shone the night- dropt shower. 
 And round the trellis' d pane did cling 
 The woodbine's weeping flower ; 
 When from his pillow'd rest the soldier started — 
 From golden dreams he wakes — his air-built visions 
 thwarted.
 
 THE EXPIRED FURLOUGH. 23 
 
 The furlough's past ; — from parents kind, 
 
 From brothers, — sisters, — he must part. 
 Whose fond affections had entwined. 
 Like tendrils, round his heart ; — 
 Not these, nor aught could bind his longer stay. 
 Stern his commander was, — and time brook'd no delay. 
 
 His parents on the threshold stand. 
 
 And bless their son with many a tear ; 
 He shook each kindly by the hand. 
 And bade them be of cheer ; 
 But not a dry nor tearless eye was found 
 'Mongst all the little group that hemmed the veteran 
 round. 
 
 And Helen to the garden hied. 
 
 And flowers in haste she gather'd there, 
 And with a tendril these she tied 
 Into a nosegay fair : 
 Then to the mournful group with speed she hies. 
 And in her brother's coat she placed the parting prize.
 
 24 THE EXPIRED FURLOUGH. 
 
 He kiss'd the children, each and all, 
 
 Which round their brother fondly clung ; 
 And then his staff and bundle small 
 He o'er his shoulder fivmg, 
 And down the vale, where birds were chanting gay. 
 And pathway flowers bloom'd wild, he wound his devious 
 way. 
 
 And now some favorite martial tune 
 He whistled, and a martial stride 
 He next essay'd, but each full soon 
 A cheerful heart behed ; 
 For O, his soul did his sad fate deplore ; 
 And thitherward his steps perchance might turn no more. 
 
 And oft with wistful eyes he turn'd 
 
 A homeward glance, with many a sigh. 
 Where age his sad departure mourn' d. 
 And weeping infancy ; 
 Till gain'd the mount, he cast a final view, 
 Dash'd from his eye the tear, and waved a last adieu !
 
 2ro a S^intcr J^IoUjfr. 
 
 Thou little gem whose fringy crest 
 Still peers above December's snows ; 
 
 Expanding still thy guileless breast 
 To every blast which blows — 
 
 Why do I love thee, little flower ? 
 
 Because thou art the only one 
 
 My eye has met in this drear scene, 
 
 For, O, when every other's gone, 
 Thou tell'st of what has been — 
 
 Why do I pity thee, pale flower ? 
 
 Because the tear is on thine eye. 
 
 And thou'rt an orphan, unprotected ; 
 
 And winter fain would bid thee die, 
 Unnoticed and neglected — 
 
 Why do I crop thee, little flower ?
 
 •26 THE THISTLE, 
 
 Because I would some gentle form, 
 When wintry skies shall frown on me. 
 
 Should give me shelter from the storm, 
 As thus I give to thee. 
 
 ^Tije ^ijistlc, or Arrogance puntsijfU. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 It was a sultry summer's dav, 
 And numerous insects were at play. 
 And over heaths and meadows brown 
 Floated the silken thistle- do-wTi, 
 Borne on the breezy wings of noon 
 Like to the fairy's gay balloon ! 
 Tho' but a feather-guarded seed 
 To propagate a noxious weed. 
 
 It chanc'd — (such chances are not rare) 
 Within a richly gemm'd parterre.
 
 OR ARROGANCE PUNISHED. 27 
 
 One of these air-light globules fell, 
 And what occurr'd our Muse shall tell. 
 But hid 'neath shrubs and flow'rets gay. 
 It slept the sultry hours away. 
 
 Now months and days roU'd swiftly on. 
 Autumn was pass'd, and Winter gone ; 
 And lovely Spring appear'd again 
 And call'd to life her flowery train : 
 The crocus first obey'd her call, 
 The primrose and the daisy small ; 
 And soon in sombre green was found 
 This thistle starting from the ground : 
 Nurtured by showers and falling dew 
 And genial suns it daily grew. 
 Till it appeared the stateliest flower 
 Which bloom'd beside the garden bower. 
 Then thirst of power and pride inflam'd 
 Her breast, and ev'ry homage claim'd. 
 And in that Eden quickly show'd 
 Herself a demon — stern and proud. 
 A purple crown the alien wore, 
 And numerous pointed spears she bore,
 
 28 THE THISTLE. 
 
 And of this martial pomp possess' d. 
 
 She thus the trembUng flowers address' d, 
 
 " Ye meanest vassals which surround 
 My throne upon this ample ground, 
 I come, or life or death to give, 
 'Tis mine to bid ye die or live ; 
 By force of arms I claim this spot, — 
 Say, do ye own me queen or not ? 
 If not, I drive ye all aloof, 
 'Gainst ev'ry foe my arms are proof ; 
 But own me queen — to me attend, 
 Ye've nought to dread — I'm still your friend 
 My children, though, in after year 
 Shall reign and nobly flourish here ; 
 A valiant band whom no vUe foe 
 Can hope or dare to overthrow. 
 I, too, demand" — alas, vain weed. 
 The gardener heard those threats indeed ; 
 He struck it down — root, flower, and all. 
 And tost it o'er the garden wall !
 
 m^ Nattbe ¥nU, 
 
 Sweet vale, though absent long from thee, 
 
 I seek my native haunts once more, 
 And, like time-parted friends, with glee 
 
 Mem'ry calls up her treasur'd store ; 
 Yes, she recalls those happy days 
 
 That we have fondly spent together, 
 When youth was wreath'd with rainbow rays. 
 
 Like mountain flow'rs in April weather ! 
 
 Yes, years their heedless course have made, 
 And, O, since boyhood's golden hour, 
 
 Tlirough many a northern glen I've stray'd 
 By heathy rock and fairy bow'r : 
 
 But when again I wander here. 
 
 Where all thy simple beauties shine. 
 
 Those visions wild, to mem'ry dear. 
 
 Lose half their spells to gaze on thine. 
 D 2
 
 30 MY NATIVE VALE. 
 
 For here 1 trace each fav'rite nook. 
 
 So "well belov'd in early years. 
 Nor on them can I fondly look. 
 
 But mem'ry wakes her tend'rest tears : — 
 Here, here's the field whose lichen'd wall 
 
 With ivy tendrils gleams so bright, 
 Where oft we urg'd the flying ball, 
 
 Or launch'd with glee the soaring kite ! 
 
 Ere May's last hours in beauty beam'd. 
 
 What glee those woods and groves would raise I 
 To climb the oak, while fancy dream'd 
 
 Of good King Charles's golden days ; 
 And wear for him the gilded wreath, 
 
 Mingled with Spring's gay virgin flow'rs. 
 Whose brand had fill'd no conq'ring sheath 
 
 On Worcester plain, — by Woodstock bowers ! 
 
 Lo, here's the oak ! ah, aged friend, 
 
 Thy hoary rugged rind displays 
 (Which time or tempest may not rend) 
 
 Tlie rude-carv'd date of boyish days :
 
 MY NATIVE VALE. 31 
 
 Now twice ten years have come and past. 
 And find thee still the same, old tree. 
 
 Bearing the record to the blast, 
 Which ne'er may injure thee. 
 
 But time and many a wintry care 
 
 Have stole the rose from boyhood's cheek, 
 While thou art in thy beauty fair. 
 
 And scorn' st the tempest wild and bleak ; — 
 It is in sooth a needless tale. 
 
 For why at fortune's frown repine ? 
 I wander thro' my native vale. 
 
 And all my cares resign. 
 
 And, lo ! to charm the wand'ring sight, 
 
 Tliou hast thy pictures rude and wild ; 
 The Druid rocks in dizzy height. 
 
 Far o'er the winding brooklet pil'd ; 
 There in the dark clifT-margin'd wood. 
 
 Oft in the sweet May-morn of youth, 
 A reckless child I've shouting stood, 
 
 While Echo mock'd the voice of tnith.
 
 32 THE CONVOLVULUS. 
 
 With glowing heart attun'd to joy. 
 
 Free as the bird that haunts the glen, 
 Once more I am a truant boy. 
 
 And live past pleasures o'er again ! 
 Thus fancy turns her eager eye, 
 
 And lists to mem'ry's glowing tale, 
 And, O, when time shall bid them die, 
 
 Be thine their tomb, my native vale I 
 
 STije ©onboHjulusi, 
 
 IN EAIN. 
 
 Airy flower, with azure cup, 
 Thou hast clos'd thy petal up. 
 For the rain-cloud's gathering gloom 
 Threats to dim thy tender bloom : — 
 Flower. — A lesson for thyself to guard with care 
 
 Against the ills which life is doom'd to share.
 
 THE CONVOLVULUS. 33 
 
 IN SUNSHINE. 
 
 Like the pure ethereal sky 
 Beams thy blue effulgent eye. 
 And rejoicing meets the ray — 
 Basking in the glare of day : — 
 Flower. — A lesson for thyself, t' enjoy the prize 
 
 Of health and sunshine shower' d from summer 
 skies. 
 
 IN DECAY. 
 
 Flower, thy race is nearly run. 
 Shrivel' d 'neath an Autumn sun ; 
 Soon to earth thou wilt return. 
 Ne'er to rise from Nature's urn ; — 
 Flower. — True, I have had my brief, my only reign. 
 
 But thou shalt bloom, and die, and rise again !
 
 iWiUtttgljt iHusic. 
 
 The curtain'd skies have their shades withdrawn. 
 
 And the moon is on her azure throne ; 
 
 Blue vapours float in the woodland dell. 
 
 And the dew is on the flow'ret's bell ; 
 
 The glow-worm has lit her lamp beneath 
 
 The hedgerow thorn and the woodbine wreath, 
 
 And peace and silence hold their reign 
 
 On the mountain height and the shadowy plaiit. 
 
 Mellow' d in shade and soften' d sheen. 
 
 The landscape round is a fairy scene. 
 
 O 'tis a time when the bosom teems 
 With its visions wild and its treasur'd dreams. 
 When the soul exults in her musings free. 
 And nought intrudes on her reverie : — 
 Till — hark ! e'en midnight silence brings 
 A sweet faint note on the zephjT's wings, —
 
 MIDNIGHT MUSIC. 35 
 
 Now loud and louder cheerily swell 
 The syren sounds from music's shell ; — 
 Now scarcely heard — now pealing high 
 Like an angel band on the broad blue sky. 
 Bearing some kindred soid afar 
 To its blissful home, in its azure car ! 
 
 I have sail'd on Derwent's liquid breast 
 
 When the moon-beam silvered Skiddaw's crest. 
 
 When our idle oar no summons gave, 
 
 And Echo slept in her mountain cave. 
 
 Or only whisper'd a faint farewell, 
 
 Like the murmuring voice of the ocean-shell ; 
 
 Till the breathing flute came warbling o'er 
 
 The shadowy lake from the waveless shore. 
 
 And listening long the numbers bland 
 
 Fancy has dream'd of faiiy land ; 
 
 But I never owned so sweet a spell 
 
 As this music wild in mv native dell I
 
 i^avfiJdls. 
 
 When the alien cuckoo's voice is heard. 
 
 And the May-breeze has kiss'd the violet-blooms. 
 
 And the forest bee and the gentle bird, 
 Dally with Flora's waving plumes. 
 
 There is a band of delightful flowers 
 
 Which I joy to meet in their haunts so green ; 
 
 They are found in the woodland's shady bowers. 
 On the lonely pathway side they're seen. 
 
 A thousand bells of a purple hue 
 
 From their tender milky stems depend : — 
 
 O to their time they are ever true 
 
 When the tears of the virgin May descend !
 
 TO AN ANCIENT WAR-SPUR. 37 
 
 And fancy oft hears on an heaven blue morn, 
 While the mavis-thrush does o'er them sing, 
 
 A fairy peal on the May- sighs borne. 
 
 From those fairy bells of the infant Spring ! 
 
 STo an llncttnt SHar-Spur, 
 
 FOUND ON TOWTON FIELD. 
 
 Relic of a darksome age, 
 Relic of the battle's rage. 
 When in deadly feud array'd 
 Kinsmen bared the murderous blade. 
 Butchering in their deadly ire 
 Sire the son, and son the sire — 
 When the White Rose, floating high, 
 Drench'd its leaves in crimson dye ; 
 When the bright Lancastrian Red 
 Its sad bleeding honours shed ; 
 When unnumber'd brands and spears 
 Flash'd 'mid ranks which felt no fears 
 
 E
 
 38 TO AN ANCIENT WAR-SPUR. 
 
 When successive fell and rose 
 Death-shafts from ten thousand bows. 
 Like the snow when falling fast, 
 Driven by the furious blast : . 
 When rang loud the battle -yell, 
 And the high plumed morion fell ; 
 Then 'twas thine to urge the steed 
 Fonvard in the hour of need. 
 E'en thy furbish'd hilt and star 
 Spilt the boiling blood of war. 
 
 When went down that sabbath's sun. 
 Relic, then thy work was done ! 
 Ne'er again thy polish' d steel 
 E'er could grace the warrior's heel. 
 But encrusted o'er and o'er 
 With the gallant war- steed's gore, 
 Tliou remainest to recall 
 Sad Lancastria's piteous fall. 
 And York's triumph, frail and brief. 
 Lost by Bosworth's fated chief, — 
 Blood-stained truths on history's page 
 Relic of their mutual rage !
 
 grfjc i^oefs pica- 
 
 Why should the child of song be sad ? 
 
 It is not so, — his thoughts are free. 
 And as the bird of summer glad — 
 
 O none so gay of heart as he ! 
 
 True he may shun tumultuous joys. 
 And the wild riot's maddening dui ; 
 
 His is a joy which rarely cloys. 
 To heaven's immortal peace a-kin. 
 
 His soul is wing'd, he feels it free, 
 He mounts on dewy pinions strong ; 
 
 He feels his immortality. 
 
 And pours to heaven his tide of song ! 
 
 And nature's charms have spells for him. 
 
 Hills, vales, and brooks, and wild flowers fair; 
 
 He sees in each a vision dim 
 
 Of the great Power that stamp'd it there.
 
 40 THE WHITE ROSE. 
 
 All have his glow of rapture won, 
 
 The earth, the sky, the seasons' span ; 
 
 The pamted clouds, the seraph sun. 
 And heaven's eternal gifts to man : 
 
 While these liis inmost thoughts inspire — 
 Nature, by God's own goodness clad : — 
 
 While flowers immortal wreathe his lyre. 
 Why should the child of song be sad ? 
 
 ^i)t WLffitc Uouc. 
 
 Queen of the bower, thou snow-white Rose ! 
 
 O thou art aye a welcome comer. 
 When sweet Spring flowers their beauty close. 
 
 And burst the glorious gems of Summer ; 
 Thou art a gem among them all, 
 
 WTiether by hedge-row wild we meet thee. 
 Or 'neath the old ancestral hall. 
 
 Or by the rustic cot we greet thee, — 
 O Flower, to Ebor's children dear. 
 We love to hail thy fragrance there.
 
 THE WHITE ROSE. 41 
 
 I pull'd one from the forest bower, 
 
 Where wildly spreads the elder tree, 
 And, O, it 'minded of that hour 
 
 When Mary gave her heart to me ! 
 A wildling from the woodland hedge 
 
 I gave her, which she priz'd full dear. 
 For long her bosom wore the pledge 
 
 When all its leaves were dead and sere — 
 O Rose ! tho' years have fleeted by. 
 Thou 'mind'st of love's unbroken tie. 
 
 I pull'd one from the gorgeous bowers 
 
 Where yonder mouldering turrets frown, - 
 It spoke to me of wo-fraught hours. 
 
 And feats by history noted down ; 
 WTlen proud Plantagenet this bloom 
 
 Erst sever'd from its native tree. 
 And chose it for his rival plume. 
 
 In all the pomp of chivalry, — 
 And tho' thou bloom'st in peaceful bower, 
 Thou tell'st sad tales of wo and stour. 
 
 E 2
 
 42 THE WHITE ROSE. 
 
 Wo were the days, O Rose divine. 
 
 Which thou wert doom'd erewhile to know. 
 And tears of kindred blood were thine, 
 
 Ere Fate forbade those tears to flow. 
 But the victorious Red at last. 
 
 On Bosworth's deep-ensanguined plain. 
 Beheld thy flower for aye o'ercast, 
 
 And woo'd thee to its bower again — 
 A nuptial wreath ! — a glorious day ! 
 For Concord gave the bride away ! 
 
 Of days by direful conflict rent ; 
 
 Of deeds which claim a nation's sigh. 
 Thou art a lasting monument. 
 
 Memento sure, which cannot die. 
 The deep-engraven brass may rust ; 
 
 Age may o'ertum the loftiest tower ; 
 The pyramids may fall to dust ; 
 
 But while thou bloom'st in summer bower. 
 Time in his course shall ne'er forget 
 Those days — Flower of Plantagenet !
 
 m;fat<)fv's itttjrcss to fjis £nf«ittt Boi> 
 
 My lovely Boy, — hope's earnest given, 
 What mingled feelings mark thy birth 
 Of joy and pain — thou gem of heaven ! 
 
 Thou flower of earth ! 
 
 Thou reck'st not of those darksome hours, — 
 
 Of grief the world's sad pilgrim mourns ; 
 Thine will not prove a path of flowers 
 
 Without its thorns. 
 
 Life's journey has its thorny cares. 
 
 Vice is in rainbow colours drest : — 
 Child, tho' I cannot check my fears, 
 
 I hope the best.
 
 44 A FATHER'S ADDRESS. 
 
 These puny hands, — nay, helpless boy, 
 
 Why from my gentle grasp recoil ? 
 Why tnm on me a reckless eye. 
 
 With cherub smile ? 
 
 These httle hands, so tender now, 
 
 Harden'd by toil, thy bread must earn ; 
 With unborn cares this placid brow 
 
 Will sadly burn. 
 
 My boy ! to wealth thou art not born, 
 
 Nor do 1 covet now that boon ; — 
 May virtue's path thy steps adorn 
 
 In life's gay noon : 
 
 Then will thy father's heart receive 
 
 A balm ere death his beck has given. 
 Quit thee without a pang — and leave 
 
 The rest to heaven. 
 
 But tho' I press thy lip to mine 
 
 With all a father's wish sincere, 
 I muse on cares which must be thine. 
 
 And shed a tear.
 
 TO A SOLITARY DAISY. 45 
 
 Farewell, my little babe, — awhile ; 
 
 I would not break thy slumber's spell ; 
 Thou hast a mother's partial smile : — 
 
 " I wish thee well !" 
 
 Zo a Solittunj Satsr?. 
 
 FOUND EARLY IN THE SPRING. 
 
 Fair flower, whose eye hath a golden tinge. 
 And is circled round with its silver)' fringe, 
 Which opes to the smile of the azure skies. 
 And recoils when the lurid tempests rise. 
 Like virtue preserving a heart of gold 
 From assaults of vice in its silken fold, — 
 What tho' thou now may'st bloom alone 
 On the bleak bare waste, by the lichen'd stone. 
 Yet as the vesper star on high 
 Proclaims that a glorious train is nigh,
 
 46 THE MUSE OF WORDSWORTH. 
 
 So thou, a gentle star of earth, 
 
 Foretell'st a fair and brighter birth 
 
 Of meadow flowers, like the gems of heaven, 
 
 When clouds from the evening skies are driven. 
 
 Sweet gem, as I pluck thy simple bloom, — 
 
 A herald of lovelier scenes to come, 
 
 I think of the lays oft pour'd to thee 
 
 By the sons of song in their minstrelsy, 
 
 By Chaucer's self, in the forest bower. 
 
 By him who crush'd thee in luckless hour ; 
 
 By him who sung a loftier strain 
 
 Of Greenland's wastes, and the negro's chain ; 
 
 By him who dwells 'mid the mountain lakes. 
 
 And I love thee well for the poet's sakes. 
 
 ^i)C l^usc of astovtfsiuorti). 
 
 His muse is like the scenes which spread around 
 His mountain home, — by grandeur wildly crown'd ; 
 Where nature, revelling 'mid that faiiy land. 
 Gains puny aid from art's officious hand, —
 
 THE MUSE OF WORDSWORTH. 47 
 
 Like eagle soaring o'er the hill's proud head. 
 
 Where human foot has seldom dared to tread, 
 
 Now softly gliding as the gentle dove. 
 
 And all is harmony, and peace, and love : 
 
 Or as the cataract bursts far and free 
 
 From mountain heights in dread sublimity, — 
 
 We wonder — we admire — admiring most 
 
 WTien those bright waters from the summit tost, 
 
 Amid the expanded lake find holy rest, 
 
 Sleeping in beauty in its gentle breast. 
 
 Reflecting nature's self, in nature's dress, 
 
 Devoid of art — in Eden loveliness ; 
 
 So his high muse, which scometh man's control. 
 
 In soothing calmness sinks into the soul. 
 
 And mirror'd thence, such lofty thought is given, 
 
 That lifts man up to gain a glimpse of heaven !
 
 ©n gatfjering a Sprig of Haurd at Burns' 
 i^tonumcnt, Qumfrtcs. 
 
 Spirit of Burns ! if thou art hovering near, 
 Pardon a deed, done with no vile intent 
 To rob thee of thy bays, so nobly earn'd ! 
 
 A stranger he — a wandering stranger he 
 Who, like a pilgrim in the days of yore 
 Thus comes — if not to worship at thy shrine, 
 He comes to drop a tear to genius due — 
 Lightly to tread upon thy hallow'd dust. 
 And bear some fond memorial from thy tomb ! 
 
 This verdant laurel in a hand like mine 
 
 Will shortly wither, seeming to regret 
 
 That it is parted from so fair a soil ! 
 
 'Twill wither ! 'tis an emblem of the world ! 
 
 Each has his day — each buds, and blooms, and dies.
 
 THE CHILD OF POESY. 49 
 
 And like this gather' d laurel is forgot ! 
 
 BuKxs ! thine shall still be green ; — in Spring's soft 
 
 hour, — 
 In Summer's sultry noon, — in Autumn's blast , — 
 In Winter's " waste of snows !" — thine knows no fall ! 
 For, indeciduous, still thy laurels bloom. 
 And greenly flourish round thy hallowed tomb ! 
 September, 1829. 
 
 Z^c €i)m of porsi?. 
 
 Thou'rt of more than mortal biith. 
 Thine are visions, not of earth ; 
 Thine are flowers for ever fair. 
 Thine are pearls without compare ; 
 Thine are sweets — and sweeter far 
 Than the May-mom's zeph}TS are ; 
 Tliine's a boundless range, and free. 
 Peerless Child of Poesy !
 
 50 ON THE SPRING. 
 
 Time forgets the hero's name ; 
 Time hath sered the conqueror's fame ; 
 Laid the frail memento low, 
 Rais'd 'mid scenes of blood and woe : 
 Time, regardless, may o'erturn 
 Sculptured tomb and kingly urn. 
 But he triumphs not o'er thee, 
 Deathless Child of Poesy ! 
 
 C3n ti)t Spring. 
 
 There's beauty on the bright green earth, a gloiy in 
 
 the sky, 
 A balmy fragrance borne upon the zephyr's gentle sigh ; 
 There's music floating on the air, where tuneful bird or 
 
 bee 
 Hold in the flower gemm'd field or wood a joyful jubilee ! 
 There's hamiony, sweet harmony, in vale and woodland 
 
 green. 
 Where the pure fountain gushes forth where Winter's 
 
 chains have been ;
 
 TO A CHILD PLAYING. 51 
 
 There's freshness in each shower that falls, hope in each 
 
 breeze which springs. 
 Bearing the cordial balm of health upon its silken wings ; 
 And there's a spirit stirs within, a nameless rapture given. 
 Which plays around the heart, and lifts our inmost 
 
 thoughts to heaven ! 
 And O ! there is in man's career a Spring — a rainbow'd 
 
 Spring, 
 When thornless flowers bestrew his path and hopes are 
 
 blossoming, — 
 The flowers soon fade — the rainbow dies — the sunbright 
 
 vision's o'er. 
 Time urges on — his Spring is past — and it returns no 
 
 more ! 
 
 2to a €i)ilti pittgmg bjitij its Siiatiobj. 
 
 What makes thee thus, my merry child, 
 
 Buoyant with glee this sport pursue. 
 Chasing with rapture, warm and wild, 
 A vision new ?
 
 52 TO A CHILD PLAYING. 
 
 For while thy form, so fairy light. 
 
 Is imaged on the bright green earth, 
 Thou wouldst embrace it with delight. 
 In boundless mirth. 
 
 But as by strange enchanter's wand 
 
 O'er some wild scene of magic wrought, 
 Lo, it eludes thy eager hand. 
 
 And shrinks to nought. - 
 
 He stoops — 'tis gone — rising again. 
 Again it tempts his fond embrace; 
 He flies with speed, — the chase is vain — 
 A wild-goose-chase. 
 
 But lo the sun withdraws anon 
 
 Behind heaven's curtain, dark and dim ;— 
 Where is the airy phantom gone 
 
 Sweet Cherubim ? 
 
 'Tis gone indeed, I know not where, 
 
 Like a strange dream at reason's touch ; 
 'Tis gone indeed, like vision fair 
 
 Which promis'd much.
 
 TO A BOTANIST. 53 
 
 And disappointment's quivering sigh 
 
 May well be thine, and starting tears ; 
 For 'tis a mirror, O my boy. 
 
 Of riper years. 
 
 We follow haughty wealth and fame, 
 
 We grasp, — they still our grasp elude : — 
 Is not a shadow and a name — 
 Similitude .'* 
 
 And oft from infant hours begun. 
 
 Till age his banner o'er us wave, 
 We play with shadows, tiU life's sun 
 Sets in the grave ! 
 
 ^0 a Botam'st, 
 
 WITH A LILY OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 Nay, scorn it not, tho' mean it seems, 
 
 'Tis Nature owns this woodland flower ; 
 
 It mingles in the poet's dreams 
 
 When wandering 'neath the forest bower. 
 f2
 
 54 TO A BOTANIST. 
 
 It tells of boyish rambles free. 
 
 Where old oaks spread and woodbines twine ; 
 Of forest songs, and boundless glee. 
 
 Of freedom, health, and auld lang syne. 
 
 Ah, aU Hexandria's gorgeous race, 
 Foster'd by Art's thrice anxious child. 
 
 Must yield in fragrance, form, and grace. 
 To this meek wildling of the wUd. 
 
 The stately tulip may aspire 
 
 In rich parterres to tempt the view ; 
 
 To lowly haunts does this retire, 
 
 And courts but Nature's child to woo. 
 
 He who delights to wander far. 
 
 Where wind the lowly brook and glen. 
 
 The leafy wood, the heathy scar. 
 
 Far from the ways and haunts of men. 
 
 But tell me, did you ever meet 
 
 In alien dales or pathless ways, 
 A flower so graceful, fair, or sweet. 
 
 Or one so worthy of your praise ?
 
 THE COMET. 55 
 
 For, O, these dewy pearl-bells wove 
 By Nature, fairy scenes among, 
 
 Are dear to bowers of peace and love. 
 To friendship and the sons of song ! 
 
 ^i^c Comet 
 
 Wandere« of heaven — illustrious star ! 
 
 That through the silent night 
 Art floating on thy streaming car. 
 
 Shedding mysterious light ; 
 
 How have I tum'd my wondering eye, 
 When thou, with fiery mien, 
 
 Didst hold thy sceptre in the sky. 
 Like War's dark threatening queen ! 
 
 Speeding from heaven's far desert gloom 
 
 To Sol's celestial beams ; 
 Then darting, like a seraph's plume. 
 
 To Nature's dark extremes.
 
 56 THE COMET. 
 
 Ah me ! how oft has airy thought 
 Bow'd down at Fancy's shrine. 
 
 And at her feet has vainly sought 
 Thy purport — thy design. 
 
 Whether, as wisdom'd sages say. 
 And science fain would trace, 
 
 A peopled world, thou wing'st thy way 
 Through realms of dreary space ? 
 
 An atom on the starry strand, 
 
 From Sol's hright radiance riven ? 
 
 A rocket, shot from God's own hand, 
 To liarht the wastes of heaven ? 
 
 ^S' 
 
 A banner, for a time unfurl' d 
 
 From its mysterious rod, 
 Spread, threatening, o'er a guilty world. 
 
 To win them back to God ? 
 
 A torch, which Nature's hand uprears 
 
 T' explore her deserts dire ? 
 A brand, to light, 'mid rolling spheres. 
 
 Her last funereal pyre ?
 
 THE ROVER. 57 
 
 Alas ! how vain conjecture teems ; 
 
 Thought, swifter than the wind. 
 May soar, and change its airy dreams. 
 
 Yet leave a blank behind. 
 
 Mysterious wanderer, 'tis thine, 
 
 Upon thy devious way. 
 To work thy Maker's will, and mine 
 
 To tremble and obey. 
 
 ^Tije l^ober. 
 
 A WILD woodbine in Flora's bower 
 Was flaunting high its summer flower. 
 When a bold bee, with wily lay. 
 Thus murmur'd round the balmy spray,- 
 " O woodbine sweet, all flowers above. 
 Come, be my only, own true love !"
 
 58 THE ROVER. 
 
 That favorite bloom of slender waist 
 Long had the roving bee embraced, 
 When a red rose, that blossom'd nigh. 
 Caught in sad hour his amorous eye, — 
 " O gentle rose, all flowers above. 
 Come, be my only, own true love !" 
 
 A lily, in the brooklet's shade. 
 Anon his wandering eye survey'd ; 
 To her he poui-'d a hvelier strain, — 
 " I surely ne'er shall rove again !" 
 " O peerless pearl, all flowers above. 
 Come, be my only, own true love !" 
 
 Now sated with the luscious spoil. 
 He danced around those flowers awhile ; 
 Then bade them each a grufi" adieu. 
 And o'er the bloomy mead he flew ; 
 To every flower round which he clung. 
 The self-same amorous lay he sung : 
 Ye maidens fair such lovers flee — 
 Beware, beware the roving bee !
 
 Zo ti)c ©betting Star. 
 
 Lovely Star, of ray divine, 
 Gem of the celestial mine, — 
 Loveliest star which ever peers 
 'Mongst the bright celestial spheres ; 
 Here, as day's proud glories fail. 
 Gem of heaven, I bid thee hail ! 
 
 Fairest of Urania's train, 
 Leading on her glorious wain. 
 Peace and harmony appear 
 Following in thy calm career, 
 As if homage proud to show 
 To so fair a queen as thou. 
 
 Vain conjectm-e now may rove 
 To thy glittering orb above. 
 Paint thy hills and vallies fair. 
 And thy sunbright daughters there.
 
 60 TO THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 Gazing from their silvery bowers 
 
 On this little orb of ours ; 
 
 Earth, perchance, may seem to them 
 
 Full as fair and bright a gem. 
 
 In the liquid ether saiHng, 
 
 O'er the azure skies prevailing. 
 
 Planet ! if thy orb is rife 
 With a moving mass of life — 
 Peopled like this globe of ours, 
 'Mongst thy hills, and vales, and bowers ; 
 At creation's earthly birth 
 Didst thou share the fate of earth ? 
 Did the serpent's cursed wile 
 First thy heaven-form'd pair beguile ? 
 Did a Saviour on the Cross 
 Suffer to redeem their loss ? 
 
 Fancy, check thy idle rein. 
 All thy puny flights are vain. 
 Thou hast wings, but mayst not soar 
 From the bourne of earthly shore. 
 Spirit, then, remain at rest. 
 Still thee in my throbbing breast ; —
 
 CHRISTMAS CUSTOMS. 61 
 
 Tenant of this dust below 
 Seek not what thou canst not know. 
 Trust thee to the promise given, 
 Hope on earth, and joy in heaven ! 
 
 Cijristmas Cuistoms. 
 
 No. I. AN INVITATION. 
 
 Old Customs ! O, I love the sound. 
 
 However simple they may be ; 
 Whate'er with time hath sanction found 
 
 Is welcome, and is dear to me. 
 
 Clare. 
 
 Welcome to thee, Christmas old ! 
 Welcome as a tale untold ! 
 Tho' the rime is on the bough ; 
 Tho' the paths are fringed with snow ; 
 Tho' the wind is chill and bleak, 
 I have been a prize to seek ;
 
 62 CHRISTMAS CUSTOMS. 
 
 Where the holly overhead 
 Shews its clustering berries red ; 
 Where the ivy-tendrils fall 
 Gently o'er the orchard wall : 
 I have sought the woodland far. 
 Where the yew's dark branches are ; 
 Where the misletoe unfurls 
 Leaf and fruit like beaded pearls ; 
 I have cull'd a wreath from these, 
 Fancy's idle whim to please. 
 And the brow of Christmas old 
 Beams from 'neath the chaplet bold, 
 And my cottage windows shine 
 With the verdant boon divine. 
 
 Come, my worthy friends of yore, 
 Share again my Christmas lore ; 
 I have legend, song and lay. 
 Fitting for such holiday. 
 While the wind is whistling wild, 
 While the glowing hearth is piled. 
 Spiced October in the rummer 
 Mantles like a flower of Summer !
 
 CHRISTMAS CUSTOMS. 63 
 
 Yet, amid our festive mirth, 
 
 Hallow'd memory, ever dear. 
 
 Shall awake devotion's tear 
 For a blessed Saviour's birth. 
 
 And as the early hour of mom 
 
 The church- tower's solemn strokes proclaim, 
 Our chasten'd mirth let cynics scorn, 
 
 Still shall the ponderous billet flame ! 
 
 Old Chi-istmas, still we'll freely join. 
 And pledge his health in draughts divine ! 
 
 Then 'neath our cottage eaves will rise 
 
 The pealing anthem to the skies ; 
 
 The trembling strings shall lend their power 
 
 To hail with joy th' auspicious hour. 
 
 And every cheek wiU be bedewed 
 
 With tears of love and gratitude. 
 
 Come my worthy friends of yore, 
 Welcome to my frugal store ; 
 Welcome as a tale untold — 
 Welcome e'en as Christmas old !
 
 CDfjnstmas Customs. 
 
 No. II. THE SWEEPERS. 
 
 The year, in funeral gloom sublime. 
 
 Is lingering o'er the grave of Time ; 
 
 And its last sun has set beneath 
 
 The mountain rocks and mountain heath : 
 
 The night-wind shakes the bolted doors. 
 
 The faggot in the chimney roars. 
 
 And on the ceiling gaily streams 
 
 Its yellow scintillating beams. 
 
 The expectant farmer — Time's rude type. 
 
 Quaffs thoughtfully his fragrant pipe : — 
 
 WTien, hark ! they come, a clattering band. 
 
 In sybil dress, with brush in hand. 
 
 To sweep away the lingering year, 
 
 And wish their host a world of cheer : —
 
 CHRISTMAS CUSTOMS. 65 
 
 Their foolish rite and mystic spell 
 Staid Custom oft rewardeth well ; 
 For the old man in by-gone day 
 Has heard his worthy grandsire say. 
 How, when refus'd the Sweepers' call 
 What ills would come and woes befall ; 
 Of blighted crops, and poultry twitch'd, 
 Dogs running mad, and kine bewitch'd ! — 
 Alas ! who would not purchase health. 
 And lucky days, and morts of wealth. 
 By greeting scenes from times remote 
 With sixpence or a paltry groat ? 
 
 This custom though on the decline, is still noticed in many of the villages 
 of Yorkshire. On the last evening of the year a number of rustics in disguise, 
 with brooms and other articles of domestic cleanliness, enter the cottages and 
 farmhouses of the neighbourhood, for the purpose, as they term it, of '■' sweep- 
 ing out the old. year " and wishing the inmates " 6e//c>' i(/cA in the new." 
 They are generally well rewarded by the old farmers, under the impression 
 alluded to in the above lines. 
 
 G 1
 
 Ci^rtstniiis Cttstomg. 
 
 No. III. NEW YEAR'S MORN. 
 
 There is a stir abroad betimes, 
 
 Long ere the lingering morn is come. 
 
 And wassail loud, and merry chimes. 
 From harp, and pipe, and peahng drum. 
 
 The cottage hearths and windows blaze 
 With vigil-fires and tapers red ; 
 
 For wo to them, tradition says. 
 
 With oil-less lamps and fires gone dead. 
 
 If so, no spark you'U beg, 1 ween. 
 To Hght your household fires withal ; 
 
 No light must pass the threshold scene. 
 Lest for a year ill luck befall !
 
 CHRISTMAS CUSTOMS. 67 
 
 And wo to you who'd be so brave 
 
 As enter cot this early morn. 
 To whom old frolic Nature gave 
 
 Ringlets of gold since ye were born. 
 
 Ill luck the gossips say ye bring, 
 
 And bar their doors and casements tight ; 
 
 O join your own dear household ring. 
 Or keep your beds till morning light. 
 
 Aye, well-a-day ! at home abide. 
 
 And laugh such simple whims to scorn ; 
 
 Ye cannot turn old Folly's tide, 
 
 Then, O, beware of New Year's Morn ! 
 
 Lest in their ire the dames should rise, 
 (Such scenes indeed full oft we've known,) 
 
 With phrenzied fury in their eyes, 
 
 And lockless make each luckless crown ! 
 
 But joy to ye with sable hair, 
 
 O New Year's blessings from your tongue 
 Are welcome as the vernal air. 
 
 Or as the cuckoo's April song.
 
 68 THE SHELL-GATHERER. 
 
 Each door to you wide open flies, 
 The wassail bowl awaits you there, 
 
 For village dame in rapture cries 
 " O lucky is the coal-black hair !" 
 
 Tho' Reason such wild fancy mocks, 
 Yet rustic lore, where hamlets spread. 
 
 Gives hail to wight with sable locks. 
 And wo to son of Rufus Red ! 
 
 Some of the more superstitious in the retired hamlets in the North of 
 England, would venture life and limb rather than suffer even a lighted candle 
 to pass from their cottages on the morning of the New Year ; and would 
 prefer " Old Sootie" himself as the first guest on that important morning to 
 a descendant of our yellow -haired Aborigines ! 
 
 Far from my home as once I stroU'd 
 
 By ocean's marge at eve's calm hour, 
 Where the retiring billows rolFd, 
 And foam'd and bellow'd with a voice of power.
 
 THE SHELL-GATHERER. 69 
 
 Gay was the scene, for numbers there, 
 In search of health, or peace, or joy. 
 Met on the shore the breezy air. 
 And sparkling pleasure beam'd in every eye. 
 
 Here glittering cars — and horsemen there, 
 
 Indent the yellow sand-beds o'er ; 
 And scatter'd wide, full many a pair 
 Pace, arm in arm, along the level shore. 
 
 But there was one that caught my glance, — 
 
 A lovely one, that seem'd to be 
 Unmov'd by this gay fairy dance 
 Upon the margin of the dark green sea. 
 
 A lovely girl she was, and one 
 
 Of tender years — and she was fair 
 As e'er was seen by circling smi, 
 In all his spacious and his bright career. 
 
 Upon a fragment lately wash'd. 
 
 And wet by the retiring billow. 
 She sat, while wild waves near her dash'd — 
 Her head hung down — her hand became its pillow.
 
 70 THE SHELL-GATHERER. 
 
 The rock on which she sat I gain'd — 
 
 Her light-blue frock tuck'd up before, 
 A rare, but hard-earned prize contain'd 
 Of shells fresh-gather'd from the pebbly shore. 
 
 What ails thee, little child ? I said, 
 
 Wliy sitt'st thou here, forlorn and wan ? 
 The infant slowly rais'd her head. 
 And thus with sorrow's voice her tale began — 
 
 No one will buy these shells of me, 
 
 Altho' for hours and hours I've striven 
 To pick the finest which the sea 
 Has on each sand-bed — rock — or shallow driven. 
 
 To sell them I have tried in vain. 
 
 And roam'd about the sandy shore ; 
 Not one of all yon numerous train 
 Will give me aught for this — my shelly store. 
 
 Pray Sir, she said, with angel smile. 
 
 The tear-drop glistening in her eye, 
 Hope trembling in her breast the while — 
 Do buy these shells ! — she waited my reply.
 
 THE SHELL-GATHERER. 71 
 
 Where is thy home, my little maid. 
 
 And wherefore seem'st thou so distrest ? — 
 Where do thy parents dwell ? — I said, — 
 She sigh'd — look'd down — and thus herself express'd. 
 
 In yon low cot beside the hUl, — 
 
 Its casement with green ivy deck'd, 
 I and my mother live — but stUl 
 No tender father have I — to protect. 
 
 My mother, too, lies ill at home. 
 
 The neighbours say that she will die — 
 To pick these shells I've hither come — 
 She sent me, for no other work had I. 
 
 No breakfast has my mother had. 
 
 To give it me she did prefer ; 
 She weeps whene'er I cry for bread — 
 She weeps — now there is none for me or her. 
 
 Do buy these shells of me ! — now do ! 
 She said, and op'd her apron wide, 
 Expos'd her painted gems to view, 
 Wliilst hope and doubt were in her face descried.
 
 72 THE SHELL-GATHERER. 
 
 Ah ! when an artless child implor'd. 
 
 In tones from simple Nature learned. 
 How could my heart remain unstirr'd ? — 
 For her, poor suppliant ! how my bosom yearn' d ! 
 
 Poor child ! I thought, is there not one 
 
 In all yon proud and 'giddy throng. 
 Whose heart by Sorrow's tale is won — 
 Can hear thy plaint, and heedless pass along ? 
 
 And is that bliss reserved for me 
 
 To place the pittance in thy hand, 
 And set thy little sorrows free ? — 
 I tripled, ('twas a trifle) her demand. 
 
 Her gratitude consisted not 
 
 In empty words, and Art's address. 
 Which please, but which are soon forgot — 
 Her looks, alone, bespoke her thankfulness. 
 
 A shining tint of rosy dye 
 
 Didt hen her beauteous cheek adorn ; 
 Tears trembled in her azure eye. 
 Which sparkled like the dewy star of mom !
 
 THE SHELL-GATHERER. 73 
 
 The infant would have fain express'd. 
 
 And pour'd in Nature's genuine glow, 
 Tlie raptures struggling in her breast ; — 
 " Go, child," 1 said, " thou'rt truly welcome, go !" 
 
 She court'sied low, then off she flew, 
 
 Like the young doe at morn's fresh hour ; 
 I watch'd her motions till she drew 
 Nigh to her threshold 'neath the ivy bower. 
 
 In pensive thought I left the beach. 
 
 Where Charity could thus refrain — 
 Nor to that child her bounty stretch, 
 Tho' struggling to relieve a parent's pain. 
 
 Long shall her shells adorn my cot. 
 And kind remembrancers shall be 
 Of feelings ne'er to be forgot. 
 Upon the margin of the dark green sea. 
 
 H
 
 ^\)t Sunflobjcn 
 
 As rearing high thy gorgeous head, 
 
 Flower of the Sun ! oh why 
 Dost thou to him thy glories spread 
 
 And watch him o'er the sky ? 
 And when he seeks his ocean- sleep 
 Why droop thy golden eye to weep ? 
 
 See I an emblem in thy flower, 
 
 (Or is it fancy's dream ?) 
 Of such as court high wealth and power. 
 
 And bask in fortune's beam ? 
 And when withdrawn the pageant glare 
 Droop down, like thee, in fixt despair ? 
 
 No, no, — to thee I would apply 
 
 A type of faith and love. 
 For, like to thine, the Christian's eye 
 
 Is fixt on things above : 
 Tho' night may lour — Hope's sun will rise 
 And brightly cheer his morning skies.
 
 ^'i)t ^omtx'n ILameut 
 
 A soldier's life to labour seems 
 Unruffled as the summer streams, 
 Save by the stroke of pleasure's oar. 
 That wafts his skiff from shore to shore. 
 
 Variety, the pleasing guest, 
 
 For ever waits upon his rest ; 
 
 Leads him by splendid tower and town. 
 
 To low and vulgar toil unknown. 
 
 Wliat though sometimes in listed strife 
 He stakes his life 'gainst foeman's life ; 
 Where'er he goes, in martial state. 
 Honour and fame his steps await. 
 
 Thus fancy drew the picture well, 
 Ere sad experience broke the spell ; 
 For, oh ! her motto' d records bear, 
 " A soldier's life's a life of care."
 
 76 THE SOLDIER'S LAMENT. 
 
 Curse on the evil-omen'd hour 
 That led me from my village bower ; 
 The high cockade and music gay. 
 That lured my careless heart away. 
 
 O let me change this vain costume. 
 This plated belt and gaudy plume. 
 For the rude dress, of rustic form. 
 And napless slouch, that feared no storm. 
 
 Then would I seek my cot once more. 
 And prize it dearer than before ; 
 And plough with willing hand, fuU fain, 
 My widow'd mother's fields again. 
 
 Can I forget the tears she shed — 
 How shook with grief her palsied head. 
 When from her threshold I withdrew. 
 And gently waved my last adieu ! 
 
 But, woe's the hour ! it may not be. 
 Farewell to mountain liberty ; 
 'Mid strange and distant lands I roam. 
 Self-exiled from my native home.
 
 TO MY OLD LILAC TREE. 77 
 
 My native home ! — O fancy's flight, 
 In sweet day visions, dreams by night, 
 Oft wings to thee, o'er land and main. 
 And hves past pleasm-es o'er again ! 
 
 When danger fronts, or foes are nigh, 
 I'd have a soldier's heart and eye. 
 When duty calls I would not flee. 
 Though death should breast his bolt at me. 
 But oft may I such scenes forego. 
 That memory's tear may fi-eely flow ; 
 And let me sing — though song were vain. 
 Give me my cottage home again ! 
 
 2ro me ©lU Htlac S'ree. 
 
 Of all those lovely tinted flowers 
 
 Which Flora's liberal hand has given. 
 
 Thick as the dews on April bowers. 
 
 Or bright stars in the heaven ; 
 
 O, there are none so dear to me. 
 
 As thy fair bells — old Lilac Tree ! 
 H 2
 
 78 TO MY OLD LILAC TREE. 
 
 Ere Christmas winds have ceased to rave. 
 
 Thy buds amid the storm appear ; 
 Green as sea- weeds amid the wave. 
 
 When summer waves are clear, — 
 Though snow fell fast and winds blew keen. 
 Thy emerald buds waved bright and green. 
 
 But now 'tis May ! — 'tis lovely May ! 
 
 Cluster'd with flowers thou'rt in thy prime. 
 And I, as in bright boyhood's day. 
 
 Amid thy branches climb. 
 To pull thy purple blooms at will, 
 To grace awhile our window-sill. 
 
 In winter, thy young buds are seen ; 
 
 In spring, thy flowers my hand invite ; 
 In summer, thou dost form a screen. 
 From suns intensely bright ; 
 And every month thou art to me, 
 A social friend — old Lilac Tree !
 
 BallaD. 
 
 I pulll'd a rose from off the bower. 
 And O, it was a thomless blossom ; 
 
 From every sting I clear'd the flower. 
 And plac'd it in my Mary's bosom. 
 
 She took it thence with trembHng hand. 
 And to her bonny lip she press'd it ; 
 
 But every leaf, so fair and bland. 
 
 Fell to the ground as she caress'd it. 
 
 A tear bedimm'd her lovely e'e. 
 
 While o'er this wreck of beauty leaning; 
 She cast a doubtful look on me. 
 
 And O ! full well I knew its meaning. 
 
 Alas, 1 said, my lovely maid. 
 
 The matchless gem is gone for ever. 
 
 Like woman by false man betray'd. 
 No more to bloom, — ah never, never !
 
 80 THE TULIP AND THE ROSE. 
 
 But think not, as thou look'st on me, 
 That love so soon can quit its station ; 
 
 And that this ruin'd rose can be 
 An emblem of its short duration. 
 
 How long or brief our days may be. 
 Till in the tomb this head reposes, 
 
 O Mary I will cling to thee. 
 
 And till my fate be like the rose's. 
 
 S'te ^ulip antJ ti)t IXont, 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 A Tulip, which is priz'd by most, — 
 A scentless flower, of lovely hue, 
 
 (Which some pronounce the garden's boast,) 
 Upon a blooming flower-bed grew ; 
 
 And on its tall and slender stem, 
 
 Display'd its gaudy diadem.
 
 THE TULIP AND THE ROSE. 81 
 
 One morn, as she unclos'd her eye, 
 And look'd abroad in haughty pride, 
 
 Near to her bed she did espy 
 
 A Rose, full-blown, and throwing wide 
 
 A fragrance to the morning air. 
 
 Which the proud Tulip could not bear. 
 
 Ah me ! she cried, what scent is here. 
 
 Which thus pollutes the breath of morn ?- 
 
 Nay, nay, — dear sister-rose forbear ! — 
 Then tost her gaudy head in scorn ; 
 
 And then the noisome smeU to stop. 
 
 She clos'd her crimson petal up. 
 
 The Rose, who could not brook the taunt, 
 Replied, while anger stung her breast ; 
 
 Thou foolish, envious thing, avaunt ! 
 That sneer' st at merit unpossess'd 
 
 By thee, and all thy worthless tribe — 
 
 Go to ! I scorn thy harmless gibe.
 
 82 THE TULIP AND THE ROSE. 
 
 Nay, nay, (the Tulip straight exclaim'd,) 
 No harm, dear sister-rose, is meant ; 
 Why is your breast with ire inflam'd ? 
 
 You boast some beauty, — but this scent 
 Is quite a nuisance ; pray attend 
 To decency, and I'm your friend. 
 
 Some beauty ! (said the Rose,) yes, la ! 
 
 Such as the sweetest kiss insures ; — 
 You boast a little, too, — but ah ! 
 
 What's beauty with a breath like yours ? 
 Where if a suitor touch your lip. 
 The breath of poison he will sip. 
 
 And now, good madam tulip, list ; 
 
 By fairest hands I'm oft caress'd. 
 Am by the lips of beauty kiss'd. 
 
 And find a throne on Anna's breast ; 
 While you are view'd with scornful brow- 
 Your all consists in outward show.
 
 THE TULIP AND THE ROSE. 83 
 
 I, (said the Tulip,) on these banks 
 
 In varied-color'd vest am seen— 
 Behold ! we stand in martial ranks — 
 
 Of all these vassals I'm the queen ! 
 Above them all I rear my head — 
 I nod — and lo ! I am obey'd ! 
 
 "VMiile you upon an hateful thorn 
 
 Are doom'd to hang your drowsy head ; 
 
 You ope your gaping eye at morn — 
 
 At night you're number'd with the dead — 
 
 That stench again you waft this way ! — 
 
 Dear sister, have some mercy, pray ! — 
 
 O Pride ! thou base perfidious guest. 
 
 That thou couldst from thy throne be hurl'd ! — 
 And thou, rank Envy, from thy nest 
 
 Be hooted round a clamorous world ! 
 That jarring Discord thence might cease. 
 And friendship live, and love increase. —
 
 84 THE TULIP AND THE ROSE. 
 
 So high the contest rose at length 
 
 Between these flowers of high pretence. 
 
 That each had almost spent its strength 
 In ire, and vaunting eloquence — 
 
 Stern Boreas heard each hot dispute, 
 
 And vow'd he'd strike at Envy's root. 
 
 " I'll end this warm debate," he said — 
 Then sweU'd his lusty cheeks, and blew 
 
 A sudden blast across the bed, 
 All where the gaudy Tulip grew ; 
 
 The Tulip bow'd its trembling head — 
 
 It snapt — 'twas number'd with the dead. 
 
 The Rose beheld its fatal fall. 
 
 With half a laugh and half a sneer. 
 
 In mockery at its fate withal. 
 
 She wav'd her head above its bier ; 
 
 While Boreas saw the shameful deed. 
 
 And vow'd that she the next should bleed.
 
 ON THE DEATH OF COLERIDGE. 85 
 
 Again his ample cheeks he fiU'd, 
 
 And thro" the rose-bush rudely pass'd : — 
 
 The deed was done — now he beheld 
 Her leaves all scatter'd in the blast, 
 
 Which to the tuhp form'd a bed, 
 
 Whereon to rest its dying head ! 
 
 €)n ti)t Scatf) of ColntJJcjf. 
 
 Another lustrous star has set, 
 But not to blank oblivion given ; 
 
 From Fame's celestial coronet 
 Behold, another gem is riven. 
 
 The star is set, but from its throne 
 A halo shines which will not die ; 
 
 While Fame but yields the pledge to crown 
 The wreath of Immortality.
 
 86 THE BLUE-BELL. 
 
 That o'er the poet's tomb will stream 
 In glory from its heavenly sphere ; 
 
 This in his well- won wreath will beam. 
 For 'tis the Muse's crystal tear ! 
 
 2ri)e m\xt^%t\h 
 
 Thy gauzy bell on wiry tendril hung, 
 
 Thy azure tints from heaven's pure fountain drawn. 
 Are sweet as ever flower by poet sung, 
 
 Waved by the breeze along the grassy lawn. 
 
 Upon the sunny bank 'mid velvet moss. 
 Thou dalliest gaily in the sunny hours ; 
 
 E'en the poor rustic's praise thou dost engross. 
 For thou'rt the fairest of our wayside flowers. 
 
 Feelings have I to mark thy native grace, 
 
 Unfelt where Art her noblest work has plann'd ; 
 
 For simple as thou seem'st, in thee I trace 
 The wondrous work of an Almighty hand.
 
 m)t Bivtf antr jFIohJcr. 
 
 Now blooming scenes and sunny skies 
 Are fled, and winter's ire conies on ; 
 
 But I have found a pearl I prize 
 
 In this fair flower tho' they are gone. 
 
 A lonely orphan flower art thou. 
 
 Companionship thou know'st not here ; 
 
 For winter shrouds the woodland bough. 
 And Flora's wreath is dead and sere. 
 
 When summer wore her gay festoon, 
 Unprized thy pearly gem might reign. 
 
 When music woke the woods of June 
 The snow-bird trill'd his notes in vain. 
 
 But now the little minstrel comes. 
 With thee, — beneath a dreary sky. 
 
 To tell of summer's gorgeous blooms, 
 And happy songs of days gone by.
 
 88 SPRING. 
 
 These, these are gone — a bootless dower ; 
 
 'Mid adverse hours they stay'd not here ; 
 I'll not o'erlook this bird and flower 
 
 When such gay scenes again appear. 
 
 Tlius oft 'mid life's capricious feast. 
 
 When youth's bright flowers and songs engage. 
 Those humble friends we notic'd least 
 
 May prove our only friends in age. 
 
 Spring, 
 
 Spring, with all her gay processions. 
 In her azure robes array'd. 
 
 Comes to claim those fair possessions 
 Which tyrannic winter sway'd. 
 
 See yon porch-like rainbow centre 
 O'er the hdl like diamonds' glow : 
 
 There her flower-robed vassals enter, 
 'Neath the splendid portico !
 
 SPRING. 89 
 
 See her now descend the mountain, 
 
 And, as with magician's skill. 
 She unchains the gushing fountain — 
 
 " GHding at its own free will." 
 
 'Mid her tresses, gaily streaming, 
 
 In the soft breeze as it springs. 
 Flowers of every hue are beaming, 
 
 Scenting sweet the zephyr's wings. 
 
 Speedwell- star, and violet blossom, 
 
 Primrose pale, and harebell blue. 
 Deck her hair and grace her bosom, 
 
 Gemm'd with morning's heavenly dew. 
 
 Birds with hearty welcome greet her, 
 
 Louder raise the varied lay ; 
 And from every clime to meet her 
 
 Dare the ocean's watery way. 
 
 In each grove they straight assemble, 
 
 Warbling from the verdant bower. 
 
 Where the pearly dew-drops tremble 
 
 On each new-born leaf and flower. 
 I 2
 
 90 SUMMER. 
 
 O'er the distant landscape bounding, 
 Pleasure threads the flowery maze ; 
 
 Hill and dale with mirth resounding — 
 All are lavish in her praise ! 
 
 Nymph ! renew, and shower around us 
 Gifts long lost at winter's shrine ; 
 
 Break the chain in which he'd bound us. 
 Bring us health and hope divine. 
 
 Summer. 
 
 Summer, in her airy dresses, 
 
 Makes the landscape- scene her own ; 
 Flowers and fruits adorn her tresses, 
 
 Spangling, too, her azure gown. 
 
 Light her step and sweet her motion. 
 As she walks the niral scene ; 
 
 Hill and dale, and plain, and ocean, 
 "Wear their robes of pleasant green.
 
 SUMMER. 91 
 
 On her car of thistle-feather 
 
 Now she floats 'neath woodland trees ; 
 
 Now o'er tracts of blooming heather. 
 Wafted by the sultry breeze. 
 
 Now 'tis sweet through woods to ramble, 
 Down some green lane's winding way. 
 
 Where 'neath hedge and blossom'd bramble 
 Wild flowers bloom in vesture gay. 
 
 Here the crane's-bill flowers are stooping 
 On the moss-banks, bright and green ; 
 
 And the fox-glove's bells are drooping 
 'Neath the holly's sheltering screen. 
 
 Spring may have her daffodillies. 
 When sweet April's breeze awakes ; 
 
 Thou can'st boast thy snowy lilies, 
 Anchor'd 'mid these shadowy lakes. 
 
 While the hawkweed bares her bosom 
 
 To the sun, and mocks his rays ; 
 And the yarrow's cream-white blossom 
 
 There its umbel gems displays.
 
 92 SUMMER. 
 
 'Mid the hedges gaily ramble 
 
 Woodbine wreaths, which form the bower ; 
 Where one oft with glee will scramble 
 
 To possess the tempting flower. 
 
 O, those scenes are fraught with pleasure. 
 
 Nameless trifles there beguile 
 Many an hour, as one at leisure 
 
 Lolls across the pathway stile. 
 
 Sweet to see the skylark mounting 
 Towai'd the sky, with song divine ; 
 
 And to list each bird recounting 
 Joys perchance which equal mine ! 
 
 Where the sun-lit waters glisten. 
 Insects dance, — 'tis life's gay noon ! 
 
 And how sweet it is to listen 
 
 To the wild-bee's murmuring tune ! 
 
 Like a map of varied colours. 
 
 How the landscape- scenes are spread ! 
 
 Waving wood, and stream, and meadows 
 Bounded by yon mountain's head.
 
 SUMMER. 93 
 
 Mowers' scythes 'mid ripen'd grasses 
 
 Sweep along the waving plain, 
 "While a troop of rosy lasses 
 
 Follows in the jovial train. 
 
 Hill and dale, and winding river, 
 
 Flowery meads and cornfields brown ; 
 
 Moors, where heath and gold-broom quiver 
 In the breeze which fans the down. — 
 
 Never weary — still elated 
 
 Is the eye 'mid natm-e's rounds ; 
 Never weary — still unsated 
 
 Is the ear with nature's sounds : 
 
 For the ample scenes of nature 
 
 Charm the heart — exalt the soul ; 
 Lift them to the great Creator, 
 
 Him who plann'd the glorious whole.
 
 ^Utttttttt. 
 
 Autumn, amid thy fading woods, and 'mid thy chequer'd 
 
 fields, 
 A pleasing pensiveness is given, no other season yields ; 
 A soft decay o'er nature spreads, wrought by thy magic 
 
 wand. 
 Like that which hoary age displays, touch' d by Time's 
 
 shrivel'd hand. 
 
 Mellow'd in a maturer hour, we prize these glories more 
 
 Than vernal flowers, or summer's charms, or all that 
 went before : 
 
 Thus sered by time, and bent by years, man still in his 
 decline, 
 
 His unshed honours wears, if cull'd from virtue's glow- 
 ing mine.
 
 A WINTER-SIGH. 95 
 
 Season of pensive musings, come ; my monitor be thou, 
 
 'Mind me how fleeting are the joys I fondly cherish now; 
 
 How soon our spring of Ufe is past, and summer's gor- 
 geous bloom. 
 
 And how thy glowing scenes are but an index to the 
 tomb. 
 
 But, O, if age should blanch my brow, may time in 
 
 life's decline. 
 Thus lay his hand upon my head as softly as on thine ; 
 Ere life's decrepit winter comes, this boon I'd fondly 
 
 crave. 
 That all his i-uffian storms shoiJd howl unheeded o'er 
 
 my grave. 
 
 ^ ffi?aintci*'^igi> 
 
 Now Winter, wild winter howls over my home , — 
 
 O for the Spring again ! when will she come ? 
 
 With her flowers, and her sunshine, and bright pearly 
 
 sky. 
 And her wood-minstrels chanting in dew-bushes nigh .''
 
 96 A WINTER-SIGH. 
 
 When the daffodil fair hath its chalice display'd. 
 And the blue little jacinth peeps forth in the shade ; 
 And all by the brook-bank sweet violets unfold, 
 And ope their pure bosoms of purple and gold ; 
 And the daisy and primrose wide scatter their stars 
 Over wood-bank and meadow, where childhood repairs : 
 And the green grove is rifled by flower- courting bee. 
 And the lilac hangs out her bright bell on the tree. — 
 
 O Winter, wild winter howls over my home , — 
 O for the Spring again ! — when will she come ? 
 
 When the snow-breasted swallow has come o'er the 
 
 main, 
 And the grove-haunting cuckoo salutes us again ; 
 Wlien the clouds o'er blue ether white banners unfurl, 
 Where the sky-bird mounts high to his mansion of 
 
 pearl ; 
 And the holly-bush hides, from the truant's sharp ken, 
 Or the fern brake, the new-woven nest of the wren. 
 When Health has replumed her gay pinion once more. 
 Triumphing where Winter his sceptre upbore ; 
 Of my hopes she's the mother — the joy of my home, — 
 O for the Spring again ! — then will she come !
 
 Prion's <5rabe. 
 
 Falconer, the celebrated author of " The Shipwreck," speaks of himself 
 in that Poem by the name of Arion. While he was preparing to publish a third 
 edition of that work, he obtained the highly advantageous situation of purser 
 on board the Aurora frigate, which was ordered to carry out Mr. Vansittart 
 and the other Commissioners to India, with the promise of being made their 
 private secretary. The Aurora frigate sailed on the 30th of September. 1769 ; 
 left the Cape on the 27th of December, and was heard of no more. 
 
 The stately bark from Afric's shore 
 
 Spread her white sails, and, proudly free, 
 Upon her ample deck she bore 
 
 The minstrel of the sea, — 
 The minstrel who had fought the storms 
 Of ocean in their wildest forms.
 
 98 ARION'S GRAVE. 
 
 He was from Albion's sunny isle, 
 
 Land of the beauteous and the brave. 
 Where first he met the Muse's smile. 
 
 And dar'd the foamy wave ; 
 And rapturously had touched the string. 
 Struck by the sea-storm's faithless wing. 
 
 That stately bark shall ne'er again 
 
 Her bold unbounded course retrack 
 O'er the proud bosom of the main. 
 
 And bear her treasure back ; 
 Nor anxious friends with joy discern 
 The first glimpse of her blest return. 
 
 On ocean's distant line a speck, 
 
 Dubious, the eye full oft explor'd ; 
 Some queenly ship with crowded deck 
 
 To home and friends restor'd : 
 Alas ! not thus may e'er return 
 That bark which wave and tempest spurn.
 
 ARION'S GRAVE. 99 
 
 O bard ! full oft has Pity's tear 
 
 Been shed o'er what thy strams disclose, 
 For poor Palemon's sad career, 
 
 Who shar'd thy former woes. 
 And on Colonna's fatal shore 
 Sigh'd Anna's name — and sighed no more. 
 
 Alas ! in death's appalling hour, 
 
 When the wild wreck's disparting form 
 Of science lost the guiding power. 
 
 The victim of the storm ; 
 To tell thy fate no soul was spar'd. 
 For all one general grave had shar'd. 
 
 Thy tomb may be the ocean surge, 
 
 Thy chilly shroud the green sea-weed, 
 The wild winds may prolong thy dirge 
 
 Where there is none to heed 
 But O, thy monument remains 
 In British hearts and deathless strains !
 
 2riie Hill? of ti)t Valltv, 
 
 I SOUGHT in the woodland haunts so green. 
 For a flower 'mid the sweets of May, 
 
 Which my fancy had nam'd the fairy queen 
 Of the daughters of Flora gay. 
 
 And where the old forest oaks had lined 
 
 A lone and bowery screen. 
 And the wild fern spread, and the woodbines twined, 
 
 I found that fairy queen. 
 
 Twin leaves it bore of a glossy hue. 
 
 Whence rose the pendent bloom. 
 And its sUvery bells by the May- sighs threw 
 
 Around their sweet perfume.
 
 TO A CANNON-SHOT. 101 
 
 Methought 'twas a spot unmeet for her. 
 
 And I deem'd, but 1 deem'd amiss. 
 That my garden bower she might prefer 
 
 To a lonely spot like this. 
 
 But it droop'd, and it pined, and it perished there. 
 
 Ere the last May-sigh had sighed ; 
 And in spite of my love, and in spite of my care. 
 
 It died, alas it died ! 
 
 Thus humble beauty, full oft may be 
 
 Cherished by wealth and power ; 
 But she sighs for her haunts of simplicity. 
 
 And her own green house -hold bower. 
 
 2ro a Cannott^SIjot, 
 
 FOUND ON MARSTON-MOOR. 
 
 Death-messengek ! — inglorious prize ! 
 
 As I thy massy form behold, 
 
 What feelings in the bosom rise. 
 
 Thou time-worn relic — sternly bold ! 
 K 2
 
 102 TO A CANNON-SHOT. 
 
 Of days by Bigotry enslaved. 
 Thou dost, old relic, sadly tell ; 
 
 When Cromwell's standard proudly waved. 
 And England's regal sceptre fell. 
 
 When Marston-moor a tremor knew. 
 
 With charging hosts and desperate strife ; 
 
 And when its native heath flowers blue 
 Droop'd 'neath the teeming tide of life. 
 
 All where those scattered flowers have wept 
 Amid the summer's gorgeous bloom. 
 
 For ages have brave warriors slept 
 
 With thee beneath the moorland tomb. 
 
 But e'en stem Time disdains to spare 
 Man's poor ambition, and his pride ; — 
 
 His palsied hand in thee lays bare 
 
 What sad Remembrance fain would hide. 
 
 Aye, Time in thee hath here reveal'd 
 One record of a nation's rage ; — 
 
 O red with gore is England's shield, 
 
 And stain'd with blood is England's page !
 
 TO A CANNON-SHOT. 103 
 
 What desolation erst was strown 
 
 Thou fatal globe of death, by thee ! 
 Where war-blades rung, and helmets shone 
 
 Like waves upon a summer sea. 
 
 Yes, thou hast scatter' d death and woe 
 'Mid armour'd knights of high renown ; 
 
 Rent the firm ranks of fiery foe. 
 
 And swept the blazon'd banners down. 
 
 Aye, 'mid the battle's demon-flame, 
 
 On wings of death thy flight hath sped, 
 
 Ere England yet had seal'd her shame, 
 Or ere her Royal Martyr bled, 
 
 Sad relic ! as to thee I turn, 
 
 Musing on woful scenes gone by, 
 Thou call'st from Memoiy's sacred urn. 
 
 The unbidden tear, — the bosom's sigh ; 
 
 For whether 'mid the dread array 
 
 Thy vengeance flew, his friend or foe. 
 
 Thou but recall'st a direful day. 
 And tell'st a tale of shame and woe.
 
 Zi)t WiaqQoncv antJ ti^e ^oat. 
 
 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 A WAGGONER, wlio througli a certain town 
 Pass'd daily with his lazy wain and six. 
 Was ever, as he pass'd a certain spot, 
 Bepester'd with a wily goat, 
 Which play'd before him such fantastic tricks. 
 That often vex'd our rude-spun clown. 
 
 For Lubin once, as merry wags have said. 
 Did treat his beard-ship with a crust of bread, — 
 Hence every day the Cambrian beast expected 
 
 That he should thus be fed ; 
 And following Lubin if he was neglected, 
 
 Would tease him with his horns — now with his feet, 
 Then make a wild precipitate retreat ; 
 And then again he would the attack renew. 
 Until he got the accustom'd fee. 
 Which he. 
 No doubt considered as his due.
 
 WAGGONER AND GOAT. 105 
 
 Tired of his bearded visitor, one day. 
 
 Said Lubin, chuckling, I will fairly vouch 
 Thou ne'er again wilt follow me this way — 
 Then tugging out a large tobacco pouch, 
 He took from thence a quid of moderate size. 
 
 And with a mumbling oath, 
 He seized the troubler by the horns and nose. 
 And forced the quid between his jaws. 
 
 Who, by the bye, seem'd nothing loath 
 T' accept the beverage — Lubin in surprise 
 Beheld the goat 
 Delighted champ the curious meat, 
 (For 'twas, in fact, a welcome treat,) 
 Which presently he popp'd adown his throat ! 
 
 Then butting Lubin with his horns and head. 
 More furiously than he had done before — 
 And if he could have spoke, no doubt, had said. 
 Give me the whole, you stupid bore ! 
 While Lubin stood 
 Much like a stock of wood ; 
 Then rais'd his hands, exclaiming with a roar. 
 By heaven, he's swallow'd it, and fights for more !
 
 106 TO A BRAZILIAN BUrfERFLY. 
 
 Now from that day. 
 As rustics say. 
 Poor luckless Lubin never could get rid 
 Of this tormenting goat, nor pass that way. 
 Without bestowing the accustom' d quid ! 
 
 If e'er you meet with an unpleasant guest. 
 Of whose acquaintance you are not ambitious. 
 And if you would not thwart your warmest wishes. 
 
 Ne'er treat him with the food he loves the best : 
 Or if to fools and flattery you would crouch, — 
 Ope the tobacco pouch ! 
 
 2ro a Bra^tUan Butterfli?, 
 
 SEEN IN THE HALIFAX MUSEUM. 
 
 Who captur'd thee, 'mid sunny flowers, 
 
 Fly of the rainbow wing ! 
 Who took thee from thy native bowers. 
 
 Where peerless blossoms spring !
 
 MY HOME! MY NATIVE HOME! 107 
 
 Well, brilliant gem, no matter who. 
 
 Nor where thy home of yore ; 
 Now, in thy dress of gold and blue, 
 
 Thou'rt on an English shore. 
 
 Prison'd where beauty's visions shine. 
 
 And beauty's smiles admire ; 
 Who would not for a fame like thine, 
 
 A fate like thine desire ! 
 
 Bright gem, with cherub's starry wing. 
 
 By science here thou'rt priz'd. 
 And mummied hke Egyptian king, 
 
 Thou art immortalized ! 
 
 slttGESted by some unfavourable accounts from certain 
 emigrants to the southern world. 
 
 I LOVE my native home too well 
 
 To leave it for the hope of gain, 
 Tho' rumour's idle tongue may tell 
 
 Of richer realms beyond the main.
 
 108 MY HOME! MY NATIVE HOME! 
 
 This vale, with water, wood, and grove ; — 
 This farm, where youth was wont to roam, 
 
 Have charm'd since earth and azure sky 
 
 First open'd on my infant eye. 
 
 And still I love, and still I love. 
 My Home ! my Native Home ! 
 
 A bubble glittering in the sun 
 
 May charm the gazer's eye awhile. 
 But grasp the gem, and, lo ! 'tis gone. 
 
 And nought but air repays his toil : 
 Thus golden dreams, in fancy's brain. 
 
 May tempt the restless wight to roam. 
 Led on by visions wild and fi'ail. 
 He leaves behind his own sweet vale. 
 Then sighs in vain, — then sighs in vain, 
 
 " My Home ! my Native Home !" 
 
 Here we have friends to share our joys, — 
 In all our griefs to bear a part. 
 
 When Care the trembling breast annoys. 
 And reckless throws her poison' d dart,
 
 MY HOME! MY NATIVE HOME! 109 
 
 Sweet Friendship tlien her storms can quell ; 
 
 Her hand the shafts of grief o'ercome : 
 But say, can this be truly found 
 
 On foreign strand — on foreign ground ! 
 Ah no ! — then still, 1 love thee still. 
 
 My Home ! my Native Home ! 
 
 And grant, kind Heaven, — (I ask no more) 
 
 Where first my infant breath I drew. 
 That when life's fleeting scenes are o'er — 
 
 That spot may see its exit too ! 
 Then round the globe let others range. 
 
 And thro' far distant regions roam ; 
 For spicy groves, and golden sands. 
 For gems and jewels, wealth and lands, 
 I would not change, I would not change. 
 
 My Home ! my Native Home !
 
 WRITTEN IN A PLAY-GROUND. 
 
 Scene of my earliest years, beloved scene ! 
 
 Again I tread thy smoothly- shaven green, 
 
 And with delighted eye would fain retrace 
 
 Each object of the long-forsaken place, — 
 
 Objects, which to my infant soul were dear. 
 
 Again I view, and view them with a tear : 
 
 For, O ! what years have past, with "march sublime," 
 
 And roll'd in silence o'er the brink of Time, 
 
 Since on this green with schoolboys I did mix. 
 
 And join'd them in a thousand wily tricks ; 
 
 In all their sports and pastimes took a part, 
 
 While boisterous rapture fill'd each youthful heart. 
 
 Remembrance hails these oaks ! — that willowy pond ! — 
 Those wood- walks, and those bowery lanes beyond ! — 
 Those hollies, by the path-stile towering still ; — 
 Those minnowy shallows by the aged mill ! 
 Those waving pines a passing notice claim, 
 Where oft the magpie's nest a prize became !
 
 REMINISCENCES. Ill 
 
 Those hazels, bending o'er the cress-grown moat, 
 For wild nuts, and for rustic whistles sought ; — 
 That creaking gate, on which for hours I've swung ; 
 That bower, where once the trembling woodbine clung ; 
 That tottering wall, — that thorn, — that letter'd tree, — 
 Each, each imparts a nameless charm to me ! 
 
 Upon yon sloping roof I still descry. 
 Beneath its pillar'd cupola so high. 
 The gloomy bell from which a wire depends, 
 And down into the noisy room descends : 
 Each mom it answer'd to the sturdy pull. 
 And caU'd the satchel'd loiterer to school : 
 Oft did its sound my startled ear assail 
 When idly sauntering o'er the neighbouring vale ; 
 And often has it urged to double haste 
 My truant footsteps down yon moorland waste ; — 
 Full oft I've shed a bitter tear, and sigh'd, 
 When its last echo on the zephyr died ! 
 
 Sweet scenes of childliood bloom in Fancy's eye, 
 Each transient pain, — each hope, — each harmless joy, — 
 Bold Fancy to mine eye upholds her glass. 
 And memory hails the objects as they pass ;
 
 112 REMINISCENCES. 
 
 And in that mirror views each childish scene. 
 So often acted on this spacious green. 
 Upon this gravel-plot where wild weeds now 
 Luxuriant spread, and flaunting chervils grow. 
 We often met, gay as the birds of Spring, 
 To try our skill around the marble-ring ; 
 To plot each feat, to win the bootless game. 
 And shoot the taw with Art's unerring aim ; 
 And as each contest to an end we drew. 
 Full many a clamourous bickering would ensue. 
 Others at leisure, con the tragic tale 
 'Neath the old oak that shadows in the dale ; 
 Some idly 'gainst its ancient trunk reclin'd 
 Grav'd their initials on its ample rind ; 
 While others in a different scene engaged ; 
 With flying ball the harmless warfare waged ; 
 And others from the quick uncoiling string 
 Whirl'd the pois'd top into the circHng ring. 
 
 Some of a tenderer age were often seen 
 Plucking wild daisies from the enamel' d green ; 
 Or chasing o'er the flowery plain with glee. 
 The freckled butterfly or wandering bee ;
 
 REMINISCENCES. 113 
 
 Or launching, (^rostation's infant type,) 
 The soap-born bubbles from the fragile pipe, — 
 Fancy's balloons ! like childish hopes which soar 
 In rainbow visions — burst, and are no more ! 
 
 In yonder nook, where those rude thorns appear. 
 Which screen'd us from the master's eye severe, 
 All eager for the sight, we often hied, 
 Affairs of honor nobly to decide ! — 
 Short was each combat — harmless in its end. 
 And each in each soon found a dearer friend. 
 
 Ah ! happier days, as these sad tears evince. 
 Were they, than 1 have known or witness'd since ; 
 No anxious cares did then my peace molest, 
 Nor found an entrance to my youthful breast : 
 Hence, lovely scenes ! fond memory turns to you, 
 And years of former joy she does review ; 
 And, link'd in Fancy's sweet bewildering chain, 
 I'd almost wish to live them o'er again ! 
 
 l2
 
 2ro tf)t p.ttb Farrotu. 
 
 Flower op the Waste ! unnotic'd flower. 
 With umbell'd pearls, all flaunting wild, 
 I greet thee in the summer hour 
 
 As Flora's humblest child. 
 
 What tho' thy lot so low is cast 
 
 As ne'er in ciiltur'd spots to shine. 
 Yet Glory's fane thou wilt outlast. 
 
 And bloom on Ruin's shrine. 
 
 Where'er Time's withering hand hath been. 
 In spots laid waste, which once were fair. 
 Thy sadden'd leaves and flowers are seen. 
 
 And stamp his signet there. 
 
 On tottering walls — by aged cot, 
 
 Thou'rt found, to tell their hastening doom ; 
 On warrior's grave — ^by Fame forgot ; — 
 On Beauty's lonely tomb.
 
 THY LIFE IS A LEAF. 115 
 
 I've seen thee on the shatter'd tower ; 
 In halls, by time and tempest rent ; 
 And fancy names thy pearly flower 
 
 Stern Ruin's Monument! 
 
 a:fjg Hife is a 3Lcat 
 
 The last leaf was hurl'd 
 
 From the wind-shaken bough ; 
 And it giddily whirl'd 
 
 To its cold grave below ; 
 
 While Fancy's eye glisten'd, 
 
 As near her it came ; 
 And her ear fondly Usten'd, 
 
 And heard it exclaim. — 
 
 " When I oped to the showers 
 Of the dew- spangled Spring, 
 
 And gaz'd on her flowers 
 'Neath my unfetter'd wing,
 
 116 THY LIFE IS A LEAF. 
 
 O bright was the day, 
 And 1 danc'd to the tune 
 
 Of the linnet's wild lay, 
 'Mid his vernal festoon. 
 
 WHien the vi'let wax'd pale. 
 
 And the primrose bloom'd free, 
 
 Then the cuckoo's first hail 
 Rung a welcome to me. 
 
 Soft airs breathed around me, 
 Dews slept on my breast ; 
 
 And the wild bee oft found me. 
 And luU'd me to rest : — 
 
 As if all things were given 
 
 For me to enjoy ; 
 Gifts shower'd from heaven. 
 
 Which never might cloy. 
 
 Then the Summer came on, 
 
 And I flaunted it still. 
 When the spring-blooms were gone 
 
 From the valley and hill.
 
 THY LIFE IS A LEAF. 117 
 
 But the storm oft molested ; 
 
 Suns parch'd me at length ; 
 And ere long sadly wasted 
 
 My beauty and strength. 
 
 By age sered and yellow' d. 
 
 Dark Autumn came on ; 
 And Time sternly beUow'd, 
 
 And bade me begone ! — 
 
 A beautiful comer 
 
 In Spring's scented gale ; 
 The boast of the Summer, 
 
 Which Autumn tum'd pale : 
 
 As open to danger, 
 
 As frail and as brief — 
 O look on me stranger ! — 
 
 Thy life is a leaf!"
 
 ^"0 dl^Iohjers, 
 
 SEEN BLOOMING ON AN INFANT'S GRAVE. 
 
 Ye gentle flowers, of modest hue, 
 Wet with the morning's virgin dew ; 
 
 Fond weepers o'er the tomb 
 Where innocence is sleeping sweet — 
 Of her, O ye are emblems meet — 
 
 Buds of a transient bloom ! 
 
 Here undisturb'd your gems abide ; 
 E'en the poor rustic steps aside 
 
 With more than Caution's tread ; 
 And Childhood, wandering 'mid these bowers. 
 Culls not the consecrated flowers 
 
 Which deck the infant's bed. 
 
 Bloom on, sweet Children of the Spring, 
 Untouch'd, save by the zephyr's wing ; 
 
 No tendei-er chann I count. 
 To touch the pensive wanderer here. 
 And draw the sympathetic tear 
 
 From the heart's sacred fount.
 
 THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH. 119 
 
 Art may her gorgeous structures lend. 
 And busted marble sorrowing bend 
 
 O'er the misnomer'd brave ; 
 But Nature's simple boon I love, 
 Of these fair flowers, which weep above 
 
 The Infant's early grave ! 
 
 There is a strain so heavenly sweet 
 
 By the dying faithful heard ; 
 A lyre, the expiring saint to greet. 
 
 By an angel's finger stirr'd ; 
 And only they can hear the song 
 With rapture's ear, tho' with speechless tongue ; 
 'Tis a song which descends from heaven's high dome. 
 And welcomes the weary pilgrim home. 
 
 A vision of holy light is given. 
 
 Such as the sun ne'er gave 
 From his high throne in the blue midheaven 
 
 To the sparkling summer wave :
 
 120 THE CUCKOO. 
 
 'Tis a halo bright which robs the tomb 
 Of its dreariness, and its midnight gloom ; 
 'Tis only seen by mortal eye 
 When sin is vanquished, and death is nigh. 
 
 Bright guardian angels hover around, 
 
 Sent from their blissful bowers ; 
 Their lutes are strung for celestial sound. 
 
 And the crown of golden flowers 
 To him is shewn with beckoning hand : — 
 Death shuts the scene, — and the choral band 
 With song and shout to heaven's high dome 
 Heralds the faithful Christian home ! 
 
 When primrose- stars deck the lap of May, 
 And wild flowers the green earth throng, 
 
 And the lilac hangs her tassels gay 
 The garden bowers among,
 
 THE CUCKOO. 121 
 
 And fields are fair where the mountains rise, 
 And our skies are blue, as Italia' s skies. 
 And the nodding groves where the woodbirds sing 
 Are touch' d by the magic wand of Spring. 
 
 A voice is heard — a fairy voice. 
 
 Within the lonely dale. 
 Which makes e'en the little child rejoice, 
 
 And fulfils a mother's tale ; 
 He remembers well when the winter snow 
 Cover'd the field and the woodland bough, 
 A mother's promise of rambles free 
 When that voice was heard from the green-wood tree : 
 
 A promise of rambles far and wide. 
 
 Where the earth is bright and green. 
 Where holly lanes rich meads divide. 
 
 And form a bowery screen : 
 Where mingling hues that scene emboss. 
 Where the linnet forms her nest of moss ; 
 And the zephyr bears its rich perfume 
 From the jacinth-bells and the blossom'd broom. 
 
 M
 
 122 THE CUCKOO. 
 
 And, Cuckoo, now Spring's bright festoon 
 
 Invites thy simple lay ; 
 And childhood claims the promis'd boon 
 
 Which Winter had made to May ! 
 Dropp'd on a bank, by the chervil'd mead. 
 He rudely forms the bagpipe reed ; 
 Or binds his flowers 'neath the hawthorn tree. 
 Or mocks thy song in his harmless glee. 
 
 O stranger ! time can ne'er erase 
 
 Lov'd memory's brightest dower. 
 Those green Spring walks, and the joyous chase 
 
 Of bee, or bird, or flower ! 
 Those visions wild thou bring'st to mind, 
 With the golden wreath of Hope entwin'd ; 
 An echo sweet by thy lay is stirr'd, 
 Of those vanish'd days — thou fairy bird !
 
 %o\\Q to 21tmtfr. 
 
 O Winter, thou art on thy way, 
 
 I heard thy voice, — thou hoary king ! 
 And saw a feather dropt to-day 
 
 From off thy ample wing ! 
 
 And art thou come to chill my flower. 
 
 Which I have nurtur'd now so long ? 
 Or drive my bird from off the bower. 
 
 Which cheer'd me with his song ? 
 
 O, I will snatch them from the tomb. 
 
 Which thou would' st fain for them prepare; 
 My flower within my cot shall bloom ; 
 My bird be welcome there. 
 
 For not a friend that cheer'd my sight, 
 
 When skies shone clear, and they were glad, 
 Shall feel the ills of winter's blight. 
 
 Nor be with sadness sad !
 
 E^t ^ott'& Grabc. 
 
 As fair and lovely a retreat, 
 
 As eye may see, or foot may tread. 
 Is this, where rest my -wandering feet, — 
 The poet's dreamless bed ! 
 
 No gloomy yew, nor weeping willow. 
 
 Nor cypress hangs his gravestone o'er ; 
 But oh, there shadows o'er his pillow 
 A lofty sycamore. 
 
 The grass is green, as green can be, 
 
 With little starry flowers among ; 
 
 And from that high o'erarching tree 
 
 I hear the redbreast's song. — 
 
 I know not why the evergreen 
 
 Should deck the rural poet's grave ; 
 Wliy sickly yew should there be seen. 
 And cypress sadly wave.
 
 TO POESY. 125 
 
 Rather let nature's hand succeed 
 
 With simple flowers, awhile to bloom. 
 And art preserve from rampant weed 
 The precincts of his tomb. 
 
 Let guardian trees be mantling round. 
 
 And nature's woodbines round them twine, 
 And wild flowers deck the grassy mound, — 
 Ah such a grave is thine ! 
 
 Ye children of the wild — the dell, 
 
 (Free unto aU, as nature's breath,) 
 In life the poet lov'd you well. 
 
 And you are his in death ! 
 
 ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING. 
 
 My lovely companion, in weal or in woe. 
 The brightest, the fairest which heaven can bestow, 
 I have visions of gladness in store, when the flowers 
 Of hope twine the heart like the bloom of green bowers : 
 M 2
 
 1-26 TO POESY. 
 
 O Poesy whispers the sweet Spring is nigh, 
 
 When the pearl-clouds of fancy drop flowers from the 
 
 sky, — 
 Tho' withered the wreath — tho' long silent the strain, 
 
 Spring will restore her lost blossoms again. 
 
 1 have heard the sweet thrush from the hazel-brake sing, 
 I have culled the meek snow-drop — a pledge of the 
 
 Spring ; 
 The daisy hath Ut up its star on the lea, 
 And the bright buds of promise now wave on the tree — 
 O the sunshine of hope which bids sorrow depart 
 Hath gilt the young landscape, and beamed on the heart. 
 
 The crystal rock-fountain is heard in the glen. 
 And the fern-brake nods time to its music again ; 
 Like the warm gush of rapture which gladdens the breast, 
 It bounds in wild mirth to its green meads of rest. 
 
 And lo, the sky-minstrel is basking his plumes 
 On yon halo of glory, which brightly illumes 
 The clouds of the west ; — O my fancy would soar. 
 Wild bird, to those mansions of beauty once more !
 
 FINIS. 127 
 
 Thou Queen of the lyre, the' in rapture's despite 
 Stern care hath half broken thy spells of delight ; 
 Yet tho' wither'd the wreath, tho' long silent the strain. 
 Bright Spring wiU restore each lost vision again ! 
 
 WRITTEN ON THE LAST PAGE OF A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM. 
 
 Thoughts, wa,rm as beams from summer skies, 
 
 Recorded here may be. 
 But thy dark veil at last applies 
 
 The rayless boundary. 
 
 Finis ! ah me, how oft we hear. 
 
 And turn thee heedless by. 
 Or mark thee with a careless ear. 
 
 And with a reckless eye. 
 
 But let us pause. All things which bloom 
 
 In nature's vast dominion. 
 Must sink in thy unhaloed tomb. 
 
 And crouch beneath thy pinion.
 
 12S FINIS. 
 
 Finis ! thou triumph'st o'er the free, 
 The beauteous and the brave : 
 
 Finis ! — ah man must bow to thee — 
 Obscurity's dark grave ! 
 
 Like the young bud he wakes to hfe. 
 Expands hke summer's charms ; 
 
 Meets autumn's blast, and winter's strife. 
 Then sinks into thy arms. 
 
 Nonentity's mysterious birth, — 
 
 A token wisely given, 
 Stamp'd on the fleeting things of earth, 
 
 Unregister'd in heaven. 
 
 Then, when of life we take our leave. 
 
 And all that round us lies. 
 And thou art nigh, may we receive 
 
 Our passport to the skies.
 
 On gati^crtng t\)t faiJtng jHobJcvs of ti)t 
 
 (MYOSOTIS PALUSTRIS.) 
 
 Thy charms have been so often sung. 
 
 My httle simple flower. 
 Whose fading stars are wildly hung 
 
 Beneath my garden bower ; 
 That 'twere a vain attempt of mine 
 In song thy beauties to enshrine. 
 
 I've seen thee thro' the summer days 
 
 In all thy heavenly hues ; 
 And I have lov'd thy gentle rays 
 
 Amid the morning dews ; 
 But summer days are on the wane, — 
 Thy fading flowers alone remain.
 
 130 TO THE EVENING BREEZE. 
 
 Yet still thy sadden'd leaves are here. 
 And tell what thou hast been ; 
 
 And thro' the winter, sad and sere. 
 They'll flourish fresh and green ; 
 
 And they'll call forth at memory's shrine 
 
 Remembrance of thy flowers divine. 
 
 So when, (his summer blossoms o'er,) 
 
 The bard forgets to sing ; 
 Or sings not as he did of yore. 
 
 Beneath affliction's wing ; — 
 O, memory ! be the Poet's lot 
 The leaves of the "Forget-me-not ! " 
 
 S'o tlje iibtntng ^xtt\t* 
 
 Thou Evening Breeze ! which fan'st the heath. 
 
 The wood, the field, the mountain grey. 
 There's fragrance in thy floating breath, 
 And music in thy lay.
 
 TO THE EVENING BREEZE. 131 
 
 O, joyous visitant, unseen, 
 
 But felt by health, and sickness too. 
 Welcome to all thou art, I ween. 
 
 And all thy presence woo. 
 
 Fond plunderer of the hedgerow flowers. 
 And tinier gems which June bestows ; 
 Rifler of dewy woodbine bowers — 
 
 Coy trifier with the Rose : 
 
 Thou dalliest with the leafy maze. 
 
 Which waves the lover's seat above. 
 To Beauty's ringlets giv'st a grace. 
 
 Wild as a dream of love. 
 
 Toil greets thee when his labor's o'er. 
 
 Love hails thee in the woodwalk fair. 
 Pale Sickness woos thee to her bower, — 
 
 Health to his mountain lair. 
 
 O'er earth and heaven thou wander' st free. 
 
 E'en Childhood hails thee with delight, 
 And on thy viewless wings with glee 
 
 Ventures his trailing kite,
 
 132 THE WALL-FLOWER. 
 
 I've lov'd thee long, — right welcome now ! 
 
 Come to my ivied lattice, where 
 The idle harp awaits thy bow. 
 
 To tune the wonted air. — 
 
 Hark ! wildly warbhng, — low — now high, — 
 
 The harp obeys thy breath with ease : — 
 Hail ! airy minstrel of the sky ! — 
 
 Right welcome — Evening Breeze ! 
 
 2rf)e WL^^jno^atx. 
 
 There is a pretty scented flower. 
 
 With golden locks so bright. 
 Which neither blooms in wintry hour. 
 
 Nor yet in summer's light ; 
 It is the Wall- Flower— child of May, 
 
 And darling of the Spring ; 
 It comes when comes the cuckoo's lay. 
 
 And scents the zephyr's wing.
 
 WHY SHOULD WE SIGH ? 133 
 
 I've seen it flaunt its golden crown 
 
 High on the lofty tower ; 
 I've seen it far from flushed renown 
 
 Bloom in the humbler bower : 
 Ambition's type it there appears, 
 
 Humility's in this ; 
 Preferring there the pageant glare. 
 
 And here afifection's kiss. 
 
 E'en so with man, wild Wall-Flower, 
 
 E'en so his die is cast ; 
 Some climb the stair of Pride and Power, 
 
 And fall by timeless blast : 
 E'en so with man, sweet Wall-Flower, 
 
 Some flee ambition's cares. 
 They prize the humble household bower 
 
 And sweetest hours are theirs ! 
 
 Why should we sigh that Winter now 
 Hides every charm which Summer knew. 
 
 The woodland's bright leaf-mantled bough. 
 And Flora's gems of peerless hue ?
 
 134 THE SWEET-BRIAR. 
 
 Brief is his triumph o'er the grave 
 Where loveUer flowers erelong shall wave. 
 
 Why should we sigh that hoary Age 
 An index is to life's last scene. 
 
 If, on our earthly pilgrimage, 
 
 Religion's star our guide hath been ? 
 
 An emblem which can only bring 
 
 A prelude to a brighter Spring. 
 
 Why should we sigh that death so soon 
 Demands the debt from mortals due .'' 
 
 Death is but life, — the grave a boon. 
 To those who virtue's paths pursue : 
 
 Why has the grave such terrors given ? — 
 
 'Tis but the link 'twixt earth and heaven ! 
 
 I CANNOT call thee beautiful, 
 I cannot call thee rare ; 
 
 Yet from thy thorny bush I cull 
 A treasure sweet and fair.
 
 THE SWEET-BRIAR. 135 
 
 The woodbine's bugle-blossoms twine 
 
 In fragrance round the bower ; 
 But, tho' all flowerless, it is thine 
 
 To rival Beauty's flower. 
 
 And when the Summer zephyr flings 
 
 Its airy pinions o'er thee. 
 Not all the sweets which Flora brings 
 
 Will Taste prefer before thee. 
 
 O desert spots 'tis thine to bless 
 With freshness, — thou can'st make 
 
 An Eden of a wilderness. 
 
 And tenderest feelings wake. 
 
 By cottage threshold in the dale 
 A much-lov'd guest thou'rt found ; 
 
 Where the old peasant tells his tale 
 To listening Childhood round. 
 
 In the safe covert of thy leaves. 
 
 Dripping with honey- dew. 
 His home the household robin weaves, 
 
 As if he lov'd thee too.
 
 136 TO A SNOW-FLAKE. 
 
 In sumptuous gardens thou'lt dispense 
 Fragrance beyond compare ; 
 
 And O, thy fairy redolence 
 Is welcome everywhere. 
 
 There mav be trees of lovelier bloom. 
 And fairer in the bower ; 
 
 But thine is virtue's sweet perfume. 
 Without e'en Beauty's flower. 
 
 Zq a Sttobj^i^afec. 
 
 Pearl of the Sky ! as thus I gaze 
 
 Upon thy virgin ray. 
 Thou 'mindst me of those happy days 
 
 Which time has filched awav ; 
 And of that sinless mirth and glee 
 I felt on first beholding thee ! —
 
 A FATHER'S LAMENT. 137 
 
 Thou'rt ffone ! — like a recordless thought. 
 
 Or foam-bell on the stream ; 
 And the bright spell thy presence wrought 
 
 Has vanish'd like a dream : 
 So the fair hopes of other years 
 Like thee have melted into tears ! 
 
 ^ jFatijfv's ILameut. 
 
 Gone is my little household flower. 
 
 Its sweets have sought their native skies ; 
 Its smile hath fled our humble bower. 
 
 And beauty in the cold grave lies. 
 Gem of my hopes ! thy mother weeps — 
 
 "Well may thy sire her sorrow share, 
 When memory on her tablet keeps 
 
 Remembrance of thy virtues fair : — 
 
 My thoughts are with the dead ! 
 
 N 2
 
 138 A FATHER'S LAMENT. 
 
 There is a little gi'assy mound. 
 
 Ah me ! beneath yon yew-tree shade. 
 Where Sabbath sighs have utterance found. 
 
 All where thy last cold bed is made. 
 Reckless of these, — the storm may rave. 
 
 And Summer's zephyr gently thrill. 
 And moonlight smile upon thy grave. 
 
 And Peace thy guardian be, — but still 
 
 My thoughts are with the dead ! 
 
 Now thine's a brighter scene than ours. 
 
 Thou lovely bud of transient day ; 
 Transplanted to immortal bowers. 
 
 And made triumphant o'er decay. 
 But where's the balm, from rapture won. 
 
 For hopes grown dim, and hearts that bleed ; 
 O beauty, friendship, truth, are gone ! — 
 
 My thoughts are with the dead indeed ! — 
 My thoughts are with the dead !
 
 ^f}c lEmigrant's jFarctof U. 
 
 My native home — my native dell. 
 
 My native land — farewell ! farewell ! 
 
 But these unbidden tears which start. 
 
 These smother'd sighs — this heaving heart. 
 
 Tell how those cherished hopes recoil. 
 
 On leaving thee — my native isle ! 
 
 And as a babe is fondly led 
 
 Unto its dying mother's bed, 
 
 And lingers there, forlorn and wan, 
 
 And feels whate'er an infant can. 
 
 So would I break Fate's stern decree. 
 
 Nor part, my native land, with thee. 
 
 What tho' on foreign shores awhile 
 1 live — ^perchance 'mid fortune's smile, 
 O I will ne'er forget my home, 
 Where'er I turn, where'er I roam :
 
 140 THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL. 
 
 I'll muse on thee in memory's dream — 
 The cot, the field, the murmuring stream ; 
 The hazel grove — the woodbine bowers, 
 The green where childhood cull'd its flowers ; 
 The hedgerow lane where oft in spring 
 I heard the wild-thrush sweetly sing. 
 And every trifling scene will be 
 A source of fond regret to me. 
 
 On transatlantic shores 'tis said 
 One glowing paradise is spread. 
 Those orange groves they fondly praise, — 
 The palm-clad hills — the blue-bird's lays ; 
 The humming-bird, of peerless hue. 
 Which feeds upon the floweret's dew ; 
 And all those feather'd tribes which throng 
 The spicy woods, vdth mystic song, 
 Whose plumage in Sol's radiance shines. 
 Rich as the gems from Chilian mines ; 
 Than these my simple home would be 
 Dearer, with hope's sweet smile, to me.
 
 WINTER AND SPRING. 141 
 
 Behold ! our bark now spreads her sails. 
 And wooes the gently rising gales ; 
 Swift o'er the western tide she steers. 
 Where one wide world of waves appears. 
 
 Land of my birth, adieu ! adieu ! 
 Still to thy shores my anxious view 
 I strain, and pace the heaving deck. 
 And watch thee dwindle to a speck ; 
 Nor cease my straining eye to turn 
 When nought of thee 1 there discern : 
 But O, ere life's short span is o'er. 
 May I behold thy hills once more ; 
 May my first home again be mine. 
 And in its arms my breath resign. 
 
 AN APOLOGUE. 
 
 One day when March was in his pride, 
 Ere he his twentieth day had number'd. 
 
 Old Winter, 'neath a wood's bleak side 
 
 Lay down, and there in peace he slumber'd,—
 
 142 WINTER AND SPRING. 
 
 Beside a cave, where o'er his head 
 Hung shoots of ice and naked willow. 
 
 He slumber'd on his dreary bed. 
 
 While the cold snow became his pillow. 
 
 Then shone the sun with kindly ray. 
 
 And smiled on dell and sterile mountain. 
 
 While dancing Naiades were at play. 
 And sporting in the gushing fountain. 
 
 Then stept a lovely maiden forth, 
 
 'Twas Spring, y wreathed with fairest flowers; 
 She wept to see the ravag'd earth. 
 
 The naked woods and ruined bowers. 
 
 Yet cautious was the maiden's tread. 
 
 And much, indeed, she pondered whether 
 
 Winter, her ancient foe was dead, 
 Or had left the wild hills altogether. 
 
 But soon beside the bleak bleak wood. 
 
 Where dead leaves did her steps encumber, 
 
 Her rival, stretch'd at length, she view'd. 
 Indulging in a noonday slumber.
 
 WINTER AND SPRING. 143 
 
 She sigh'd, as well she might, I wot, 
 
 O'er that bright shield, — his darts and quivers. 
 
 Which, crackling, quickly feU to nought. 
 Or flew into a thousand shivers ! 
 
 At that sad sound old Winter woke. 
 
 And bellow'd with a voice of thunder, 
 " What wretch has dared with impious stroke 
 
 To break ray shining shield asunder ? " 
 
 " Ah well I wot the wanton foe 
 
 Who would usurp my throne — my honour ! 
 Vengeance and death await her now — 
 
 A just revenge I'll wreak upon her ! " — 
 
 Meanwhile young Spring, of radiant hue. 
 Heard the sad threats of death and ruin. 
 
 Thro' wood and dale with haste she flew, 
 Stern Winter in the rear pursuing. 
 
 A bank of snow now barr'd her way — 
 
 Where could she turn } — down, down yon valley ! — 
 There thou art surely safe ! — but nay. 
 
 Winter does stiU his vengeance rally !
 
 144 WINTER AND SPRING. 
 
 A rivulet next, — yet there unstopt, 
 
 In fearful haste the nymph leap'd over, 
 
 But from her lap a primrose dropt. 
 Nor could she then the gem recover ! 
 
 There Winter found that bloom, and stoop'd 
 
 To breathe his icy breath upon it ; 
 The flower its modest petal droop'd — 
 
 A theme for some sad plaintive sonnet ! 
 
 But tho' the bloom was gone, the stem 
 Had taken root, — he could not harm it ; 
 
 It still would bear another gem 
 
 When Spring's sweet sigh returned to warm it. 
 
 And ever since that fated hour. 
 
 While yet stern Winter's rage is swelling, 
 The primrose shows its early flower, 
 
 The lovely Spring's return foretelling !
 
 S'o BeruavO Barton* 
 
 If from my native hearth and home 
 This idle strain may chance to roam, 
 And meet the distant poet's eye. 
 It bids him hail, with memory's sigh. 
 
 It bids him still those paths pursue 
 To nature, worth, and genius true ; 
 It teUs, tho' weak, in feeling strong. 
 How priz'd, how lov'd, his spotless song. 
 
 And now from far it thus conveys 
 Not the vain pomp of fulsome praise, 
 But the warm tribute of the heart 
 For the high bliss his strains impart. 
 
 It bids him still embrace the lyre. 
 Draw forth the pure seraphic fire ; 
 Those breathings sweet, to virtue given, 
 Which reach the golden gates of heaven !
 
 ^f)t ¥cb)=2rrrt WivtHtih 
 
 Whene'er I walk the forest green, 
 Or pace the sad sepulchral scene, 
 O dark Yew-Tree ! thou art to me 
 A mingled wreath of wo and glee ! — 
 Thy hoary branches gently bend. 
 And guard my long departed fi-iend. 
 For o'er his grave thy tears are shed — 
 Fond guardian of the silent dead. 
 
 Whene'er the Christmas band I join. 
 Where song goes round and sparkling wine- 
 
 dark Yew-Tree ! thou art to me 
 
 A mingled wreath of wo and glee ! — 
 Thy branches green, thy berries bright, 
 Have cheer'd December's gloomy night, 
 When, round my cottage windows hung, 
 
 1 heard the Christmas anthem sung.
 
 ON GATHERING A PRIMROSE. 147 
 
 Whene'er I stand in musing mood 
 On ancient fields of rage and blood — 
 O dark Yew-Tree ! thou art to me 
 A mingled wreath of wo and glee ! — 
 In days of chivahy and strife. 
 When foeman sought his foeman's life, 
 To thee was given to urge in hate 
 The fatal feather'd bolt of Fate :— 
 
 Thy wreath is memory's friend and foe, 
 A mingled wreath of joy and wo ! 
 
 ^n Satiiermg a ^nmros^ 
 
 I HAVE found a flower in the woodland far, 
 Lovely and pale as a fading star : 
 Lonely it blooms like a gem of light. 
 And my heart is glad at the simple sight.
 
 148 A BENEDICTION. 
 
 I 
 
 Now the ousel's song in the brake is heard. 
 And the thrush calls loud on each choral bird ; 
 For the spring is nigh, and the flowers of love 
 Are about to burst in the breezy grove. 
 
 Hope's sunny smile in this bloom appears. 
 And a gush of joy in its vestal teai-s ; — 
 God's goodness shines in the simple flower. 
 And I cull the prize as his pledge of Power ; — 
 
 As a pledge that His goodness ere long will bring 
 The hope, and the health, and the joys of Spring ; 
 When Nature's altar its incense gives. 
 And His praise is sung by all that lives. 
 
 ^ 23cnf0ift!ou, 
 
 TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER. 
 
 Thou'rt welcome, sweet blossom. 
 
 Thus lull'd to repose. 
 And press'd to the bosom 
 
 Afiection bestows :
 
 THE MUSE. 149 
 
 And as I gaze on thee. 
 In warmth of the hour, 
 
 My blessing upon thee. 
 Thou beautiful flower !- 
 
 My love — as in duty, 
 A tear, when distrest ; 
 
 A smile to thy beauty. 
 And hope for the rest ! 
 
 STije i^use. 
 
 On light- waving pinion from heaven she descended. 
 The thriU of her lute with the passing breeze blended 
 Her loose mantling robes were as spotless as snow. 
 And wreaths of green laurel encircled her brow. 
 
 So sweet was her voice, while her golden harp rung, 
 
 That mortals drank up the glad sounds as she sung ; 
 o 2
 
 150 THE BLASTED DAHLIA. 
 
 The loan of that lyre then with ardour they crave — 
 She gave it, but still this injunction she gave, 
 " That lyre is divine ! from above is its birth. 
 Pollute not its chords with the dross of the earth ! " 
 
 Fair Poesy ! thine is a boon ever rife 
 To strew with bright flowers the rude pathway of life ; 
 Thrilling sounds to delight us when Hope's vision fails. 
 Soft numbers to soothe us when sickness prevails ; 
 A beacon to lighten hfe's gathering gloom, 
 A halo which circles the clouds of the tomb ! 
 
 Zi)t BliistftJ Baijiia* 
 
 That fine exotic, like the flush of morn. 
 
 That flaunting Dahlia, with its flaming flower. 
 
 Oft had L from the time its gem was born, 
 
 Deem'd it the pride of Flora's peerless bower - 
 
 The summer Rose by summer-breeze is torn, 
 AVhile nature spares for this an autumn dower.
 
 TO AN OLD TREE. 151 
 
 Yester I mark'd it spread its fieiy bloom, 
 
 In all the glory of its summer birth ; 
 But the keen frost-blight e'en since then hath come, 
 
 Scattering with crystal gems the leaf-strewn earth. 
 And the gay flower hath drop'd into its tomb, — 
 
 Ah little wot we what an hour brings forth ! 
 
 gro an Bid ^vtt. 
 
 Thine is no forest scene — old Tree ! 
 
 For thou art all alone, 
 Spreading thy branches o'er the lea, 
 
 And o'er this mossy stone. 
 
 Which forms, as it for years has done, 
 A welcome seat, and made 
 
 A silken couch from shower and sun. 
 Beneath thv verdant shade.
 
 152 TO AN OLD TREE. 
 
 Old Chronicler of sunny hours. 
 In boyhood's golden prime, 
 
 Where oft he bound his April flowers. 
 Which were too fair for Time ; 
 
 For they are gone, and each delight 
 
 Their airy visions cast ; 
 WHiile thou'rt rejoicing in thy might — 
 
 A Record of the past. 
 
 When spring or glowing summer smil'd. 
 With aU their pledge of flowers. 
 
 Beneath thy shade — a happy child, 
 I've sat for hours and hours — 
 
 Making with dandelion stems 
 The trumpet's mimic sound. 
 
 Or rifling the red clover-gems, 
 Where honied sweets abound ; 
 
 Or rousing echo from its cell, — 
 (In childhood's sinless sport ; — ) 
 
 Bursting the foxglove's spotted bell, 
 With many a wild report.
 
 TO AN OLD TREE. 153 
 
 But now, beneath thy cooUng shade, 
 
 The poet's glowing page. 
 In never-dying flowers array'd, 
 
 My wandering thoughts engage ; 
 
 And tho' a witching spell is there. 
 
 Yet truth must own, — old tree ! 
 It cannot with the bliss compare 
 
 Which childhood caught from thee ! 
 
 And yet to scenes of early days 
 
 My fancy loves to turn, 
 They wrap the soul in chasten'd rays. 
 
 Which make the bosom burn ; 
 
 They are a balm to muse upon, 
 
 A spell to charm the mind ; 
 And tho' the substance may be gone. 
 
 The shadow's left behind. — 
 
 Long may thy old and hoary bough 
 
 With time a warfare wage. 
 That children, — e'en as I do now. 
 
 May bless thee in their age !
 
 S^tir Sleeping Infant 
 
 How calm thy sleep, my little one ! 
 
 Gift of a hand divine ! 
 Care has no wreath to place upon 
 
 That lily brow of thine : 
 
 Yet on thy cheek are tears of grief. 
 Like pearl- drops on a flower ; 
 
 Frail emblems of thy sorrows brief 
 At evening's lonely hour. 
 
 Yet thou wilt wake to boundless glee 
 When dewy morn appears, 
 
 Nor e'er remember'd more will be 
 Thy bitter evening tears.
 
 THE SLEEPING INFANT. 155 
 
 But what are these thy hopes which share ? — 
 
 Thy feeble hands which fiU ? — 
 Thou'rt grasping with a miser's care 
 
 Thy little playthings still ; 
 
 Come yield to me each useless toy. 
 
 Till morn's young beams shall peep ; — 
 
 Nay, struggle not ! — can'st thou enjoy 
 These trifles in thy sleep ? 
 
 Slumber her silken plumes has furl'd 
 
 Around thy placid brow. 
 And yet an emblem of the world 
 
 Thou pictur'st to me now. 
 
 'Tis thus with man, whom old age brings 
 
 To life's declining vale. 
 He weeps at Time's stern call, and clings 
 
 To trifles just as frail !
 
 ^0 a liosfijuU. 
 
 Fairest of flowers, 
 
 Bright rosebud, art tliou ; 
 
 Pride of the bowers 
 
 When summer suns glow. 
 
 Thou hast gold in thy bosom 
 Conceal'd from the eye : 
 
 Bright dews on thy blossom 
 Like stars in the sky. 
 
 Thou hast tints which each maiden 
 
 May woo to her cheek ; 
 With sweets thou art laden. 
 
 Which death cannot break. 
 
 Thou hast these, it is true. 
 
 Thou hast thorns too, I ween ; 
 
 Tho' conceal'd from the view 
 'Neath thy bright leafy screen.
 
 THE SNOW-DROP. 157 
 
 Thus tears are misgiving, 
 
 And wealth, which adorns, 
 And smiles are deceiving. 
 
 And beauty has thorns ! 
 
 ^i}t SnoiuOvop. 
 
 The Snowdrop is a lovely flower. 
 
 By poet often sung ; 
 It blooms beneath the leafless bower 
 
 Ere winter's dirge is rung ; 
 And nature's bards unborn shall bless 
 
 The pearl with rapture's sigh, 
 And they will praise its loveliness 
 
 With feeling's simple joy. 
 
 The Snowdrop is a gentle bloom. 
 And, ere the woodbirds sing, 
 
 I've seen it like a spotless plume, 
 Dropp'd from an angel's wing ;
 
 158 THE SNOWDROP. 
 
 All unallied to earth, the gem 
 Seems of a purer sphere ; 
 
 Hope wears it on her diadem 
 When other flowers are sere. 
 
 The Snowdrop is a hopeful bloom ; 
 
 Tho' born in ruthless blast 
 It tells of sunny days to come, 
 
 When these dark hours are past 
 'Tis as an iris on the cloud. 
 
 When storms are on the wane ; 
 A star on nature's icy shroud 
 
 Which bids her live again !
 
 gumma's S^iarning. 
 
 I've flung my scatter'd roses to the wild unstable blast, 
 My merry birds prepare for flight, — my beauty cannot 
 
 last, 
 The bee has well nigh stor'd his hive from flowers the 
 
 hills adorning ; 
 Lo, soon they droop, and fade, and die, — haste, 'tis fair 
 
 Summer's Warning ! 
 
 The corn is ripening on the hill, the bright fruit on the 
 
 tree ; 
 The eye of cheerful industry is beaming joyfully ; 
 But, sluggard, when my sister Spring was nature's face 
 
 adorning. 
 If thou wert never warn'd by her thou'lt scorn e'en 
 
 Summer's Warning.
 
 mo SUMMER'S WARNING. 
 
 O if the rose of youth is fled, which ne'er returns again. 
 And manhood's high meridian sun Hke mine is on the 
 
 wane. 
 Woe, woe if unimproved 'tis past, and vain is Summer's 
 
 Warning, 
 And dark and dreary will it rise on life's chiU Winter 
 
 Morning !
 
 SONNETS 
 
 P 'Z
 
 SONNETS, 
 
 I. 
 ^i^e %pivit of tJjc %ta %i)tn^ 
 
 In this inimitable palace, wrought 
 
 By fairy artist, surely there may dwell 
 
 Some spirit of the deep, invisible. 
 Endued with language, feeling, beauty, thought : 
 
 List, how it murmurs in its murky cell ! — 
 Hath not the ear its dubious meaning caught ? 
 Spirit, thy voice is sad I ween, sure thou 
 
 Art waihng for the dreary seaman's lot, 
 Wreck'd near thy home, the coral I'eef below, — 
 
 Scenes witness'd once, and ne'er to be forgot : 
 Or art thou dreaming of thy ocean-home. 
 
 And faintly echoing to the bounding wave. 
 Yearning again thro' sea-bom wdds to roam ? — 
 
 Thou fairy inmate of this puny cave !
 
 164 SONNETS. 
 
 II. 
 
 H Ittoorlanti Cottage. 
 
 I LOVE a rude old cot, by peasant plann'd. 
 Clay-built, — alone, beside some desert moor. 
 
 Such as I've met with in old Cumberland ; 
 And often shelter'd till the storm blew o'er. 
 
 Beside the bright peat fire and ingle grate. 
 
 And red-tQ'd hearth with wither'd rushes strow'd. 
 While the unfetter'd wind was howling loud 
 
 O'er the black heath and moorland desolate. 
 
 How happy have I been ! — listening meantime, 
 To border feud, and legendary lore. 
 
 Told in good troth, or sung in rude old rhyme. 
 By aged inmate, caught from days of yore, — 
 Perchance too dearly do I hold in store 
 
 Those oral remnants of the olden time ! —
 
 SONNETS. 165 
 
 III. 
 
 (CONTINUED.) 
 
 I ask'd the old man if he e'er had heard 
 
 Of minstrel Burns, — he quaff 'd his goblet up, 
 And his eye brighten'd at the magic word. 
 
 As if some sudden joy had fill'd his cup 
 Of desert poverty. — " Poor Robin ! ay 
 
 I kenn'd him weel, the lad of open hand. 
 And open heart, like to a flower o' May, 
 The brawest minstrel o' this border land ! " 
 Then with true feeling triU'd he many a lay . 
 
 Of that sweet bard, in numbers gently bland. 
 In crowded rooms, with music's witching spell. 
 
 To list such songs full oft has been my lot, 
 But never did I hear them sung so well 
 As by that old man in the moorland cot.
 
 166 SONNETS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 ^0 €f)Xi&tma&, 
 
 Clad in dark robes of the declining year 
 We bid thee welcome, Christmas, and again 
 Greet thee full loudly with th' accustom'd strain 
 
 Which childhood lov'd, and age still loves to hear. 
 
 What tho' the summer leaf is sickly sere, 
 
 Nor flowers bedeck the mountain or the plain. 
 Thy happy presence cheers, and breaks in twain 
 
 The spell of sadness, on thy gay career : 
 
 And while the yule-block curls its mantling flame. 
 We gladly summon from its ' dark retreat ' 
 
 The sparkling beverage, hoarded to thy fame. 
 And thy return in hearty pledges greet ; 
 
 And crown thee, Christmas, mid our festal cheer. 
 
 With verdant honors of the waning year.
 
 SONNETS. 167 
 
 ^0 ^i)rtstmas. 
 
 (CONTINUED.) 
 
 Yet tho' to mirth the joyous hour we give, 
 'Tis not the chorus of the drunkard's song. 
 Nor the wild circUng dance. To us belong 
 High thoughts which bid the glow of rapture live ; 
 Such, Christmas, as befit thy season dear. 
 Such, as from those extatic moments flow, 
 MTien the soul feels her hghten'd load of woe. 
 And finds her freedom in unearthly sphere. 
 And, when th' high carol at still midnight hour 
 Bursts on the wakeful ear, — a thought be given 
 Above the thoughts of earth, — a sigh to heaven 
 Of gratitude, for this eternal dower ; 
 The glorious advent of redeeming grace, 
 The only refuge of a fallen race.
 
 168 SONNETS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF BOLTON. 
 No. 1. 
 
 The crescent moon was in the starry heaven 
 When, pilgrim-Hke, before thy hoary wall 
 We stood, fan- Bolton ! Where to stranger's call 
 
 No answer, save what echo gave, was given : 
 
 But all was desolate, — arch, aisle, and dome. 
 
 Knew nought of tapestry gay, and music's power ; 
 There shivering ivy form'd the night-bird's bower ; 
 
 There the wild bat had form'd his desert home. 
 
 Tliat temple, still — tho' Ruin, it was thine. 
 Wrought more of magic on the raptur'd sense, 
 Tlian when it stood in full magnificence. 
 
 And incense blaz'd around Saint Mary's shrine; 
 
 Or on the flowery sod, so sad and fair, 
 
 Rylstone's White Doe couch'd on her Sabbath lair.
 
 SONNETS. 169 
 
 VII. 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF BOLTON. 
 No. 2. 
 
 Morn came, and brightly beam'd the vernal scene, 
 Like an elysian landscape spread at large, 
 WTien wound we slowly by the Wliarfe's bright marge, 
 
 By pathway flowers and woods of living green ; 
 
 Anon, astounded, stood we on the verge 
 
 Of the cleft rocks, where, deep below entomb'd, 
 The cavern'd waters in their fury foam'd. 
 
 As howls the demon of the ocean surge. 
 
 It was in a lovely spot, yet desolate. 
 
 The same, perchance, as when bold Romalie, 
 
 Last of that noble race here met his fate. 
 
 While bellowing torrents mock'd the mother's cry ; 
 
 And now, as then, those chasms their victims wait. 
 And those pent waters roar eternally. 
 
 Q.
 
 170 SONNETS. 
 
 VIIL 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE VALE OF BOLTON. 
 No. 3. 
 
 The fairest vale thro' which thy waters flow ; 
 
 The most suhhme, is this : — the giant rocks 
 Here would dispute thy passage ; — there below. 
 
 The vernal foliage hangs its dcAvy locks 
 O'er thy fair bosom. 'Tis a mutual smile 
 
 Of flowers and crystal. Peacefully serene 
 
 Thou journeyest onward thro' the woody green, 
 Soft as the zephyr fans yon ivied aisle. — 
 "VNTiat years have fled since first thou did'st convey 
 
 From Bolton's lofty towers the Sabbath chime, 
 And merry peal, to distant vales away ! — 
 
 Eternal source ! thou scorn'st th' assaults of Time, 
 For thy pure waves here heedlessly wiU stray. 
 
 When nought remaineth of yon pile sublime.
 
 SONNETS. 171 
 
 IX. 
 
 When death's cold finger, virtue's welcome friend. 
 Upon the bard was laid, — with beaming face 
 He thus exclaim'd, " I wish not to erase, 
 
 One line of what I heretofore have penn'd ! " 
 
 'Twas nobly said ! Virtue, and faith, and love. 
 And gratitude, had warm'd his gentle lays ; 
 
 He felt the Spirit's influence from above ; 
 To Nature's God he yielded all the praise ; 
 
 Not vice's toil, nor pleasure's beck, could lure 
 
 To pluck his laurels on a sod impure. 
 
 Ye bards, whom not the syren's taunts impeach, 
 Whose spotless song your lasting fame secures. 
 
 When death demands the debt he claims from each, 
 O may such cheering retrospect be yours !
 
 172 SONNETS. 
 
 X. 
 
 THE NORTHAMPTONSHIRE PEASANT. 
 
 Bard of the Pastoral reed! if aught of song 
 
 Or poesy a stranger should inspire, 
 (Whose ear, old Ebor's heathery hills among, 
 
 Has heard the magic of thy soothing lyre,) 
 To thee should swell the chords of harmony. 
 
 And to the world those feehngs should impart. 
 Which in his bosom struggle to be free. 
 
 And thro' his soul their quick vibrations dart. — 
 
 Oft has he conn'd, with ever-glowing heart. 
 Thy rural themes beneath the wood land tree. 
 
 Till fast the sympathetic tears would start 
 From Rapture's fountain. Hence, sweet bard, would he. 
 For these, (O poor return for gifts hke thine !) 
 Amid thy bays this simple flower entwine.
 
 SONNETS. 173 
 
 XL 
 S'jj |i?dpstonc Cottage, 
 
 THE BIRTH PLACE OF JOHN CLARE. 
 
 Not the proud mansions of the wealthy great, 
 Where pomp and luxury at once reside, 
 And Learning's tomes are ranged in golden pride. 
 
 The Muse, alone, has mark'd for her retreat ; 
 
 For, Helpstone, in thy humble cottage bowers. 
 Delighted she has wreathed the rural crown. 
 
 With tasteful hand has cull'd her choicest flowers, 
 And fondly call'd thy favorite bard her own. 
 
 In after year, where he was wont to dwell, 
 Still clad in robes of moss and lichens grey , 
 
 With thoughts of him who lov'd those scenes so well. 
 The passing stranger there his steps shall stay ; 
 
 Long will he gaze with taste's unsated eye, 
 
 With feelings warm, and memory's holiest sigh. 
 
 Q
 
 174 SONNETS. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Cottagr ^^mttttiobj jHobJcrs. 
 
 Wreathing the seasons round, I love to view 
 
 This Httle fairy grove of cottage flowers ; 
 In meek simplicity thus smiling thro' 
 ' The diamond casement, — e'en in winter's hours. 
 Roses and gay geraniums. Here, too, blooms 
 
 The gorgeous Fuchsia — scarce a leaf we see. 
 In such profusion droop its scarlet plumes. 
 
 Like Beauty's tresses, round the alien tree ; — 
 And that old widow'd matron tends them well : — 
 
 Smile not, it is no weakness thus to tend 
 Such simple nurslings, — they are like a spell. 
 
 And to the heart of age and childhood lend 
 A balm of comfort, — and may heaven thus send 
 
 To her, in helplessness, a guardian friend.
 
 SONNETS. 175 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Spring f^rtovmng. 
 
 When Spring has sweetly deck'd the landscape gay, 
 
 I love at early morn to be awake. 
 And hear the cuckoo chant her plaintive lay. 
 
 And the freck'd throstle carol from the brake. 
 Thro' unfrequented lanes 'tis sweet to pass. 
 
 Where thorn and holly fonn fantastic bowers ; 
 And underneath, from weeds and spiry grass. 
 
 To pluck, and pause on nature's curious flowers ; 
 To see the birds, with featheiy down or moss. 
 
 Prepare their nests in hoary wall or tree ; — 
 To mark the timid hare the meadows cross, — 
 
 To list the music of the wandering bee. — 
 No charm can equal, tho' pale sloth may scorn, 
 A rui'al ramble on Spring's earliest morn.
 
 1 76 SONNETS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 2ro SHortrsbJorti^. 
 
 Wordsworth, thy muse, with seraph wing outspread, 
 Upon her heavenward way, has dipt her plume 
 In pure dew-fountains ; and, where sweetly bloom 
 
 Gay fairy landscapes, she thy steps hath led : 
 
 Bolton's bright vale, and Duddon's rocky bed. 
 Have echoed to thy ever tuneful lyre ; 
 And often hast thou join'd the airy choir 
 
 Where foot, save thine, has seldom dared to tread. 
 
 Thy pictured scenes, upon each heart impress'd. 
 Are lovely as yon heaven's imperial dome, 
 
 When moon and stars are slumbering on its breast, — 
 Or Uke the lake which guards thy native home, 
 
 Deep and yet clear, reflecting nature — free. 
 
 And sweetly simple 'midst sublimity.
 
 SONNETS. 177 
 
 XV. 
 
 2:0 ^outi^ei?. 
 
 Mighty Enchanter ! thy unfetter'd hand 
 
 Does from the harp such thriUing numhers bring. 
 Wild as the chords swept by the zephyr's wing, 
 
 When blythe ^olus leads his choral band 
 
 Of airy minstrels ! Like magician's wand, 
 Thy pen, whate'er it touches, can transform, 
 And bring to view, in glowing colors, warm. 
 
 From climes where eastern grandeur does expand. 
 
 No common theme is thine, no common song, 
 Thy Muse still basks in pure cerulean light ; 
 
 Like the Arabian bird which sweeps along 
 
 O'er trackless sands, — or as the eagle's flight ; 
 
 No earthly tie thy mighty genius binds, — 
 
 Strong as the wave, and chainless as the winds.
 
 178 SONNETS. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 itilt srtougijts. 
 
 Airy intruders ! brooking no control, 
 
 Thoughts — vain and idle as an empty dream ; 
 
 Rising like foam-light bubbles on the stream. 
 Which to oblivion's gulf successive roll ; 
 Like meteors glancing on a summer night, 
 
 Erratic, changing, fleeting, uncontroU'd, 
 Where is the rein that checks your fairy flight ?- 
 
 Man's puny will is but a cobweb hold. 
 Yes, ye are idle when ye wildly spring ; 
 
 And hope on you can no fair structure build ; 
 Yes, ye are idle when upon your wing 
 
 Come airy wishes, ne'er to be fulfill'd : 
 But how shall man your wild obtnasions waive. 
 When e'en in slumber ye his soul enslave !
 
 SONNETS. 179 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Well ! 'tis a glorious afternoon ! — the sun 
 
 All day hath shone on herb, and flower, and tree ; 
 And rode without a cloud or vapour dun. 
 
 To dim his eye on yon blue canopy. — 
 This morn a tearless journey he begun, 
 
 And promis'd a continued calm. — But see ! 
 The little daisy closeth up its flower, 
 
 And many a bloom shuts up its painted eye ; — 
 For lo ! yon clouds portend a speedy shower. 
 
 And darkening spread along the western sky. 
 So when the ills of life on me shall lour. 
 
 When dark impending clouds are gathering fast. 
 May I prepare against the stormy hour. 
 
 And thus in safety meet the coming blast.
 
 ISO SONNETS. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Maria, I remark'd but yesternight. 
 
 Just when the wren had trill'd his evening song. 
 How thou didst revel, like a fairy light. 
 
 The gay parterre, and garden bowers among : 
 And thou didst pluck the fairest blooms which grew. 
 
 Thy busy hand the richest treasures found. 
 From their gay petals dash'd the trickling dew, 
 
 And with a tendril bound them round and round. 
 Oh, 'twas a tasteful choice ! — the blooming gems 
 
 Grae'd, with their matchless charms, our window-sill ; 
 A day is past, — behold, upon then* stems 
 
 They droop, obedient to fair Nature's will : 
 Maria, life is but a fleeting day. 
 And beautv is a shade, — as frail as thev.
 
 SONNETS. 1 81 
 
 XIX. 
 
 'Neath blossom'd thorn, beside the meadow pass, 
 Whose shadow stretches o'er the velvet grass, 
 Lo, in their sinless glee a little group 
 Of rustic children bind their nosegays up, 
 Of daisy, buttercup, and wild blue-bell. 
 And nameless flowers sought in the pasture dell ; 
 Now singing merrily, and now in glee 
 Mocking the cuckoo in the neighbouring tree ; — 
 Ah happier far their simple raptures glow 
 Than aU the sweets which riper years bestow. 
 Enjoy ye fairy idlers, ye are met 
 
 Happy as bees 'mid summer's blossom'd bowers ; 
 Spring never showed a lovelier pictiire yet 
 
 Than village children with their wild May flowers. 
 
 R
 
 182 SONNETS. 
 
 XX. 
 
 WRITTEN IN CUMBERLAND. 
 No. 1. 
 
 Sertuntt Hafte, h$ MoorHiqi)U 
 
 O'er cloudless heaven the peerless queen of night 
 Was travelling in beauty, vfhen beside 
 Thy pebbly strand, fair Derwent, we descried 
 
 Scenes memory cherisheth with fond delight ; — 
 
 Anon the puny shallop plough' d her way 
 O'er thy pure bosom, 'mid thy lily flowers, 
 Stirr'd by the rippling wave, 'neath island bowers. 
 
 Like fairies dancing in the moony ray. 
 
 Now listing to the loud cascade from far ; 
 Now lost in mountain shadows ; — then again 
 
 In silvery moonlight basking like a star. 
 In the full freedom of its wide domain ; 
 
 Till the charm'd eye beheld from shore to shore. 
 
 All that wild fancy gives to fair)- lore.
 
 SONNETS. 183 
 
 XXI. 
 
 WRITTEN IN CUMBERLAND. 
 
 No. 2. 
 
 3Lob)Uore. 
 
 Grandeur had thrown her solemn veil around 
 That awful chasm, where with impetuous shock 
 Burst the dark cataract o'er naked rock, 
 
 And cavern unexplored ; loud as the sound 
 
 Of ocean in his fury. 'Twas a spot 
 
 To fancy dear, where nature's loom had wove 
 Its fairy network over rock and cove. 
 
 Of rampant ivy — meet for fairy grot : 
 
 And to thy bellowing waters Echo's spell 
 Burst in wild utterance thro' that lonely dell. 
 
 Emblem of man art thou, eternal source ! 
 (An empty echo, too, his glory bears,) 
 For soon the grave bars his ambitious course. 
 E'en as fair Derwent thy lone tomb prepares.
 
 184 SONNETS. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 WRITTEN IN CUMBERLAND. 
 No. 3. 
 
 S'ije JftaittijoUj, &mx from tf)t l^ountattts. 
 
 Tho' trackless as an Arab wilderaess, 
 
 I climb'd the hoary mountains of the north, 
 
 Where nature to subUmity gives birth, 
 While frown'd the dark sky in its sable dress. 
 But lovelier scenes dawn'd on the passing hours — 
 
 The azure heaven, and objects dimly seen 
 In the vast distance ; — towns and lofty towers. 
 
 And silvery lakes, and landscapes freshly green : 
 TiU gained the summit, heaven's gay Bow at last 
 Gleam'd o'er the dreary valley I had pass'd. 
 So on life's stage the pilgrim, day by day. 
 
 With brightening prospects may his footsteps wend. 
 Upheld by faith along the weary way. 
 
 Till hope's gemm'd halo cheers his journey's end.
 
 SONNETS. 185 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Btvftsliale, in Autumn. 
 
 Lover of nature, hast thou ever stood 
 
 On that high southern rock, all hoary grey, 
 Which crests the rugged height of old Birks-wood, 
 
 Wlience the eye wanders thro' the vale away 
 Mid deep ravine, and scar, and cavern hoar. 
 
 And old oaks spreading in luxuriance wild, 
 Where in the moonlight wander' d oft of yore, 
 
 The snow-white serpent and the Fairie Childe ! 
 If not, go now, while Autumn's tasteful hand 
 
 Has limn'd the landscape-scene beyond compare ; 
 
 Go when the Sabbath morn opes bright and fair. 
 Or when the moonbeams shed their lustre bland ; — 
 
 The breeze of health and rapture's spell are there ; 
 And thou shalt have a glimpse of fairy-land ! 
 
 R 2
 
 186 SONNETS. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 A LEGEND OF BIRKSDALE. 
 
 Such chemb sweetness in his features shone, 
 
 Such beauty wreathed his golden ringlets wild. 
 
 That Fame but knew him as — The Fairie Childe, 
 Wandering those silent forest haunts alone ; 
 Alone ! nay, for companion strange had he, 
 
 A snow-white serpent was his constant friend ; 
 It shared his food, it shared his sinless glee. 
 
 Following where'er his vagrant steps might wend. 
 It wreathed him round in many a winding coil ; 
 
 Guarded the boy, when none but he could guard ; 
 Companions true, as they had been erewhile : — 
 
 Alas ! that phghted friendship should be marr'd ! 
 That dark distrust shovild love's sweet bond defile. 
 
 And death should be fidelity's reward !
 
 SONNETS. 187 
 
 XXV. 
 
 (CONTINUED.) 
 
 'TwAS night, — and 'neath the forest branches wild 
 He slept — the moonbeams o'er his features thrown. 
 And one bright star from cloudless heaven look'd 
 down. 
 
 Like guardian spirit's eye upon the child. 
 
 He slept, — but still his serpent friend was there. 
 And watch'd full faithfully his ward's sweet rest ; 
 But boding fear in anxious parent's breast. 
 
 Sought thro' that lonely glen his child so fair. 
 
 With stifled hiss, and high erected crest, 
 The faithful serpent boded danger nigh : — 
 Rash mortal ! he but guards thy fairie boy, 
 
 Why deal the death- stroke on his friend — his best ? — 
 The child awoke ; but from that fated hour 
 He droop'd and faded like a blasted flower.
 
 188 SONNETS. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 (CONTINUED.) 
 
 The summer stream ran not its joyous race 
 As heretofore, 'neath the old twisted root 
 Of oak and ash ; nor, in its fond pursuit, 
 
 Lav'd, in its mirth, the deep scar's rocky base. 
 
 Tliere was a sign of sorrow in the glen. 
 
 There was a sadness in each summer bloom ; 
 
 The wolf was howling in his hollow den. 
 All else was silent as the midnight tomb. 
 
 Again the moon peer'd o'er the rocky hill ; 
 
 The guardian star, of which we spoke, was gone ; 
 
 E'en on the bough the aspin leaf was still. 
 And in the silent wood there wander' d none ; 
 
 For that bright child, the fairest work of God, 
 
 Was sleeping sweetly 'neath the forest sod !
 
 SONNETS. 189 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Eo t^t l^ontmg Star. 
 
 Mysterious star ! meek herald of the dawn, 
 Gleaming in beauty o'er the blushing sky. 
 When veil'd at length to the inquiring eye. 
 
 Thy sister orbs their lustre have withdrawn ; 
 
 Imagination wings thro' airy space. 
 O'er thy elysian fields awhile to roam. 
 And 'neath thy golden bowers and spangled dome ; 
 
 But back recoils, and only this can trace, 
 That from a nobler source thou dost absorb 
 Those brilliant beams that gild thy distant orb : 
 
 So we, frail mortals, unillumed and dark. 
 Might still in rayless ignorance be driven. 
 
 Had we no Saviour, no celestial spark, 
 
 To light our steps, and point the way to heaven.
 
 190 SONNETS. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 WRITTEN ON SKIRCOAT ROCKS. 
 
 High o'er thy rippling tide, romantic stream, 
 
 On Druid rocks, which frown upon the fell, 
 
 Where wild moss spreads, — where flaunts the heather- 
 bell, 
 I sit to snatch the momentary dream, — 
 
 That airy dream of memory which braves 
 Life's chequer'd scenes which thickly intervene ; 
 
 The emulous riot on thy summer waves. 
 The idle strolls upon thy margin green, 
 
 And every feat so weU-remembered, — yea. 
 
 Clear as the deeds of even yesterday : 
 Thou mind'st me of those rural revels held 
 
 On thy green banks where boyhood wildly roved, 
 Thou first fair river which these eyes beheld. 
 
 Thou mimic sea which cannot flow unloved !
 
 SONNETS. 191 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 2ro t^c Uitytv €nltitx* 
 
 (CONTINUED.) 
 
 The mind recurs, bright river, to the time 
 
 When thy oak-shadow'd vale, in echoes free. 
 
 Rung to the merry feats of archery ; 
 Where lair'd the wild boar mid thy rocks sublime, 
 
 And celted Briton dared his foreign foe ; 
 And on these heights, o'er thy pui'e w^aters rais'd. 
 The Dniids worshipp'd, and their altars blazed, 
 
 Which Time can hope not e'er to overthrow. 
 Strange days were those, — yet still the eye would turn. 
 And some faint wreck of that dark age discern : — 
 
 O, for the minstrel's magic to retrieve. 
 And bring the buried past to light again. 
 
 In deathless song ! — bidding wild raptures live, — 
 Eternal wanderer of yon flowery plain !
 
 192 SONNETS. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Ye tinted blossoms of luxuriant Spring, 
 Who, as she treads the sod serenely bland. 
 Scatters profusely from her lavish hand 
 
 Your infant offerings to the zephyr's wing. 
 
 On sloping banks which morn's bright sun-rays share. 
 On shelving rocks far beetling o'er the brook. 
 From your high stations cheerfully ye look. 
 
 Nor woo man's fostering hand, nor need his care ; 
 
 Whether we meet you on the heathy wild. 
 Or mark you mid the meadows gaily spread. 
 Or gorgeous flaunting on the garden's bed, 
 
 Who would not, by your varied charms beguild'd. 
 
 Exclaim, the wisdom of an heavenly power 
 
 Shines in each bud, is stampt on every flower !
 
 SONNETS. 193 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 S'o ti)t stars. 
 
 Ye ever watchful guardians of the night, 
 
 That hold your vigils thro' her tranquil reign, 
 Spangling the heavens with an unchanging light, 
 
 Pure and unborrow'd, — light which knows no wane- 
 Mysterious brilliants ! in your boundless spheres 
 
 For ever wandering, as thro' ages flown ; 
 And ages may roll on and countless years. 
 
 With quenchless fires still ye'll to earth look down.- 
 When silence gives a range to chainless thought. 
 And night-dews weep round Nature's sable urn. 
 To your pure sapphire thrones I love to turn, — 
 Then earth's proud scenes and visions shrink to nought- 
 But Truth has graven on her spotless page. 
 That Man shall live when ye grow dim with age !
 
 \[)4 SONNETS. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 COMPOSED XEAU RICHMOND CASTLE, YORKSHIRE. 
 
 Romantic Swale ! beneath this ivy bower 
 I sit me down, wrapt in a pleasing dream, 
 And musing, mark thy melancholy stream 
 
 Ghding along by Richmond's ancient tower, 
 
 Wliich stiU o'erlooks thee with " a voice of power ! " 
 And frowning o'er yon cliff in mood sublime. 
 Seems to defy the sweeping scythe of Time 
 
 Its firm and feudal grandeur to deflom- ! 
 
 Swale ! thou hast seen its firm foundation laid. 
 And heard amid those stately halls, perchance. 
 The armour'd knights, Avith clanging shield and lance. 
 
 And now thou see'st the change old Time hath made ! 
 
 And thy pure waves shall flow unheeding by 
 
 When not a vestige meets the stranger's eye !
 
 SONNETS. 195 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 ^0 l.tUcs of tfje Vallt^, 
 
 GATHERED IN SHROGS WOOD, OVENDEN. 
 
 Well, I have sought these woodland haunts full long 
 
 For you, coy strangers, but at last I've found 
 
 In this sequester' d nook your blossoms crown' d 
 With richest fragrance, to the May- sighs flung. 
 Mid bilberry tendrils and wild sprouting fern, 
 
 Shadow'd with greening oaks, where few intrude. 
 Careless the gazer's warm applause to earn, 
 
 I've found you in your peaceful solitude : — 
 Ye white-robed fairies ! Pride of you may learn 
 
 A lesson of humihty and good. 
 For, bashful lilies, like to you I've seen 
 
 True Modesty from pubUc scenes recoil. 
 And in the haunts of poverty have been, 
 
 Where beauty blossoms on the poorest soil.
 
 196 SONNETS. 
 
 XXXI V. 
 
 It is a simple theme, — yet, gentle bird, 
 
 Tho' thou art songless now, I know fuU well 
 How thy gay carol cheer'd the summer dell. 
 
 When zephyrs bland the wild rose-bushes stirr'd : 
 
 I would repay thee, gentle bird, in kind. 
 
 Then take this artless lay, it bids thee share. 
 With hearty welcome, too, my household fare. 
 
 And shelter from the snow and piercing wind. 
 
 Alas, poor bird, who can the future see ? 
 For I, ere long, may feel the tempest fell. 
 
 Bidding the visions of the present flee. 
 
 While adverse fortune breaks the Muse's speU ; 
 
 Yet then some friend may shield from the wild blast. 
 
 In warm remembrance of the happy past.
 
 SONNETS. 197 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Leaning o'er mossy bank or woodland stile. 
 
 Where hollies and wild honeysuckles weave 
 A rural bower, 'tis pleasant to beguile 
 
 A vacant hour upon a summer's eve, 
 Listing to Nature's strains ; — such as we've heard 
 
 From distant Thrush or Blackbird's golden bill ; 
 And piping Whitethroat, — and the fearless bird 
 
 Which at heaven's fountain pours his raptures still 
 And the brisk Finch's oft-repeated tale ; 
 
 And tiny Wren, the ferny glades among ; 
 And the coy Yellow-hammer's doleful wail ; 
 
 And Linnet warbling his untutor'd song ; 
 
 And the prim Robin — eager to prolong 
 His twilight lay, — our northern Nightingale.
 
 i:)8 SONNETS. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Ms ^cttaqt. 
 
 Mid these green fields, smiling in summer gladness. 
 
 With scatter'd buttercups and silver daisies. 
 Where merry childhood, — stranger yet to sadness. 
 
 Binds up its posies for a parent's praises, — 
 Oft have I blessed thee, little cot, and found thee 
 
 A balm for every Ul and every care ; 
 The winds of discontent may whistle round thee. 
 
 But enter, surly blusterers, if ye dare ! — 
 Thy airy casement, wreathed like lady's bower. 
 
 With autumn's guerdon or green leaves of summer ; 
 And household Roses bursting into flower. 
 
 And welcom'd heartily each blithe new comer ! — 
 And thy fireside, where converse flows at will. 
 And Comfort and old friends are guests there still !
 
 I,KYLAND AND SON, PRINTERS, HALIFAX.
 
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