[THIS and the two following were composed in the orchard, Townend Grasmere, where the bird was often seen as here described.]
'Her* divine skill taught me this, That from every thing I saw I could some instruction draw, And raise pleasure to the height Through the meanest object's sight. By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rustelling; By a Daisy whose leaves spread Shut when Titan goes to bed; Or a shady bush or tree; She could more infuse in me Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man.'
IN youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy; But now my own delights I make,— My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly Nature's love partake, Of Thee, sweet Daisy!
Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly decks his few grey hairs; Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, That she may sun thee;
Whole Summer-fields are thine by right; And Autumn, melancholy Wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane; Pleased at his greeting thee again; Yet nothing daunted,
Nor grieved if thou be set at nought: And oft alone in nooks remote
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
Be violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose; Proud be the rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling,
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; Thou art indeed by many a claim The Poet's darling.
If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie Near the green holly,
And wearily at length should fare; He needs but look about, and there Thou art!- -a friend at hand, to scare His melancholy.
A hundred times, by rock or bower, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension;
Some steady love; some brief delight; Some memory that had taken flight; Some chime of fancy wrong or right; Or stray invention.
If stately passions in me burn,
And one chance look to Thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler urn
A lowlier pleasure; The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs
Of hearts at leisure.
Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, When thou art up, alert and gay, Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play With kindred gladness:
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness.
And all day long I number yet, All seasons through, another debt, Which I, wherever thou art met, To thee am owing;
An instinct call it, a blind sense; A happy, genial influence,
Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Nor whither going.
Child of the Year! that round dost run Thy pleasant course,-when day's begun As ready to salute the sun
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain; Nor be less dear to future men
Than in old time;-thou not in vain
Art Nature's favourite.*
TO THE SAME FLOWER.
WITH little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Daisy! again I talk to thee, For thou art worthy,
Thou unassuming Common-place Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace,
Oft on the dappled turf at ease
I sit, and play with similies,
Loose types of things through all degrees, Thoughts of thy raising:
* See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower.
And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame, As is the humour of the
While I am gazing.
A nun demure of lowly port; Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, In thy simplicity the sport
Of all temptations;
A queen in crown of rubies drest; A starveling in a scanty vest; Are all, as seems to suit thee best, Thy appellations.
A little cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten and defy,
That thought comes next-and instantly The freak is over,
The shape will vanish-and behold A silver shield with boss of gold, That spreads itself, some faery bold In fight to cover!
I see thee glittering from afar- And then thou art a pretty star; Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee!
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;- May peace come never to his nest,
Who shall reprove thee!
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