What favours do attend me here, Till, like thyself, I disappear Before the purple dawn." When this in modest guise was said, In the blue depth, like Lucifer Fire raged: and, when the spangled floor New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought forth: Transfigured through that fresh abode, Had heretofore, in humble trust, This knowledge, from an Angel's voice 1818. XXVI. THE POET AND THE CAGED TURTLEDOVE. [WRITTEN at Rydal Mount. This dove was one of a pair that had been given to my daughter by our excellent friend, Miss Jewsbury, who went to India with her husband, Mr. Fletcher, where she died of cholera. The dove survived its mate many years, and was killed to our great sorrow by a neighbour's cat that got in at the window and dragged it partly out of the cage. These verses were composed extempore, to the letter, in the Terrace Summer-house before spoken of. It was the habit of the bird to begin cooing and murmuring whenever it heard me making my verses.] As often as I murmur here My half-formed melodies, I rather think, the gentle Dove If such thy meaning, O forbear, "Mid grove, and by the calm fireside, That coo again!-'tis not to chide, 1830. XXVII. A WREN'S NEST. [WRITTEN at Rydal Mount. This nest was built, as described, in a tree that grows near the pool in Dora's field next the Rydal Mount garden.] AMONG the dwellings framed by birds In field or forest with nice care, No door the tenement requires, And seldom needs a laboured roof; Impervious, and storm-proof. So warm, so beautiful withal, And when for their abodes they seek An opportune recess, For shadowy quietness. These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls, There to the brooding bird her mate Or in sequestered lanes they build, Like relics in an urn. But still, where general choice is good, This, one of those small builders proved In a green covert, where, from out The forehead of a pollard oak, The leafy antlers sprout; For She who planned the mossy lodge, Had to a Primrose looked for aid High on the trunk's projecting brow, The treasure proudly did I show To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things; but once Looked up for it in vain: 'Tis gone-a ruthless spoiler's prey, Just three days after, passing by The Primrose for a veil had spread Concealed from friends who might disturb Thy quiet with no ill intent, Secure from evil eyes and hands On barbarous plunder bent, Rest, Mother-bird! and when thy young Take flight, and thou art free to roam, When withered is the guardian Flower, And empty thy late home, |