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If the Butterfly knew but his friend,
Hither his flight he would bend ;
And find his way to me,
Under the branches of the tree :
In and out, he darts about;
Can this be the bird, to man so good,
That, after their bewildering,
Covered with leaves the little children,

So painfully in the wood ?

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

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

1806.

XVI.

SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL.

FOUNDED UPON A

BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG THE PASTORAL VALES

OF WESTMORELAND.

SWIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel !
Night has brought the welcome hour,
When the weary fingers feel
Help, as if from faery power;
Dewy night o'ershades the ground;
Turn the swift wheel round and round !

Now, beneath the starry sky,
Couch the widely-scattered sheep ;-
Ply the pleasant labour, ply!
For the spindle, while they sleep,
Runs with speed more smooth and fine,
Gathering up a trustier line.

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

1812

XVII.

HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS

POR CERTAIN POLITICAL PRETENDERS.

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

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

The stormy skies !

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

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

With uninjured plumes !”—

ANSWER.

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Stranger, 'tis no act of courage Which aloft thou dost discern; No bold bird gone forth to forage

'Mid the tempest stern; But such mockery as the nations See, when public perturbations Lift men from their native stations, Like yon

TUFT OF FERN ;

Such it is; the aspiring creature
Soaring on undaunted wing,
(So you fancied) is by nature

A dull helpless thing,
Dry and withered, light and yellow ;-
That to be the tempest's fellow!
Wait-and

you

shall see how hollow Its endeavouring !"

1817. XVIII.

ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM

OF A HARP,

THE WORK OF E.M.S.

Frowns are on every Muse's face,

Reproaches from their lips are sent, That mimicry should thus disgrace

The noble Instrument.

A very Harp in all but size!

Needles for strings in apt gradation ! Minerva's self would stigmatize

The unclassic profanation.

Even her own needle that subdued

Arachne's rival spirit, Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood,

Like station could not merit.

And this, too, from the Laureate's Child,

A living lord of melody! How will her Sire be reconciled

To the refined indignity?

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