Think how ye prospered, thou and thine, Housed near the growing Primrose-tuft In foresight, or in love. 1833. XXVIII. LOVE LIES BLEEDING. [IT has been said that the English, though their country has produced so many great poets, is now the most unpoetical nation in Europe. It is probably true; for they have more temptation to become so than any other European people. Trade, commerce, and manufactures, physical science, and mechanic arts, out of which so much wealth has arisen, have made our countrymen infinitely less sensible to movements of imagination and fancy than were our forefathers in their simple state of society. How touching and beautiful were, in most instances, the names they gave to our indigenous flowers, or any other they were familiarly acquainted with!- Every month for many years have we been importing plants and flowers from all quarters of the globe, many of which are spread through our gardens, and some perhaps likely to be met with on the few Commons which we have left. Will their botanical names ever be displaced by plain English appellations, which will bring them home to our hearts by connexion with our joys and sorrows? It can never be, unless society treads back her steps towards those simplicities which have been banished by the undue influence of towns spreading and spreading in every direction, so that city-life with every generation takes more and more the lead of rural. Among the ancients, villages were reckoned the seats of barbarism. Refinement, for the most part false, increases the desire to accumulate wealth; and while theories of political economy are boastfully pleading for the practice, inhumanity pervades all our dealings in buying and selling. This selfishness wars against disinterested imagination in all directions, and, evils coming round in a circle, barbarism spreads in every quarter of our island. Oh, for the reign of justice, and then the humblest man among us would have more power and dignity in and about him than the highest have now!] You call it, "Love lies bleeding,"—so you may, From month to month, life passing not away: So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew Into the service of his constant heart, His own dejection, downcast Flower! could share With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear. XXIX. COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING. NEVER enlivened with the liveliest ray And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves. When her coevals each and all are fled, What keeps her thus reclined upon her lonesome bed? XXX. RURAL ILLUSIONS. [WRITTEN at Rydal Mount. Observed a hundred times in the grounds there.] SYLPH was it? or a Bird more bright A second darted by ;—and lo! Through sunshine flitting from the bough Of April's mimicries! Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy Among the budding trees, Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the spray Maternal Flora! show thy face, Thy hand here sprinkling tiny flowers, Yet, sooth, those little starry specks, To be confounded with live growths, Not such the World's illusive shows; Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave For the undeceived, smile as they may, Are melancholy things: But gentle Nature plays her part With ever-varying wiles, And transient feignings with plain truth That those fond Idlers most are pleased 1832. XXXI. THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES. [SEEN at Town-end, Grasmere. The elder-bush has long since disappeared it hung over the wall near the Cottage; and the Kitten continued to leap up, catching the leaves as here described. The infant was Dora.] THAT way look, my Infant, lo! What a pretty baby-show! See the Kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall, Withered leaves-one-two-and three From the lofty elder-tree! Through the calm and frosty air : |