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If to a rock from rains he fly,
Or, some bright day of April sky,
And wearily at length should fare;
A hundred times, by rock or bower,
Some steady love; some brief delight;
If stately passions in me burn,
And one chance look to Thee should turn,
I drink out of an humbler urn
A lowlier pleasure;
The homely sympathy that heeds
Of hearts at leisure.
Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,
When thou art up, alert and
Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
And all day long I number yet,
An instinct call it, a blind sense;
Coming one knows not how, nor whence,
Child of the Year! that round dost run
As lark or leveret,
Thy long-lost praise* thou shalt regain ;
Than in old time ;-thou not in vain
Art Nature's favourite.
* See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower.
TO THE SAME FLOWER.
WITH little here to do or see
Of things that in the great world be,
Thou unassuming Common-place
Oft on the dappled turf at ease
Loose types of things through all degrees,
And many a fond and idle name
I give to thee, for praise or blame,
While I am gazing.
A nun demure of lowly port;
Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
Of all temptations;
A queen in crown of rubies drest;
A little cyclops, with one eye
That thought comes next-and instantly
The shape will vanish-and behold
I see thee glittering from afar-
Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
May peace come never to his nest,
Who shall reprove thee!
Bright Flower! for by that name at last,
I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
That breath'st with me in sun and air,
Of thy meek nature!
THE GREEN LINNET.
BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed
In this sequestered nook how sweet
And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year's friends together.