PANSIES, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there's a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are violets,

They will have a place in story: There's a flower that shall be mine,--'Tis the little Celandine.

Eyes of some men travel far

For the finding of a star;

Up and down the heavens they go,
Men that keep a mighty rout!
I'm as great as they, I trow,

Since the day I found thee out,

Little flower!-I'll make a stir
Like a great astronomer.

Modest, yet withal an elf
Bold, and lavish of thyself;
Since we needs must first have met
I have seen thee, high and low,
Thirty years or more, and yet
'Twas a face I did not know;
Thou hast now, go where I may,
Fifty greetings in a day.

Ere a leaf is on a bush,
In the time before the thrush
Has a thought about its nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless prodigal;
Telling tales about the sun,

When we've little warmth, or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood!

Travel with the multitude;

Never heed them; I aver

That they all are wanton wooers.
But the thrifty cottager,

Who stirs little out of doors,

Joys to spy thee near her home:

Spring is coming--thou art come!

Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming spirit!

* Common pilewort.

Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,

But 'tis good enough for the

Ill befall the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no :
Others, too, of lofty mien ;
They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth,
Scorned and slighted upon earth!
Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,
Singing at my heart's command,
In the lanes my thoughts pursuing
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!

VL

TO THE SAME FLOWER.

PLEASURES newly found are sweet
When they lie about our feet;

February last, my heart

First at sight of thee was glad;

All unheard of as thou art,

Thou must needs, I think, have had,

Celandine! and long ago,

Praise of which I nothing know.

I have not a doubt but he,
Whosoe'er the man might be,
Who the first with pointed rays,
(Workman worthy to be sainted)
Set the sign-board in a blaze,
When the risen sun he painted,
Took the fancy from a glance
At thy glittering countenance.

Soon as gentle breezes bring
News of winter's vanishing,
And the children build their bowers,
Sticking kerchief-pots of mould
All about with full-blown flowers,
Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold!

One winter's night, when through the trees
The wind was thundering, on his knees
His youngest born did Andrew hold:
And while the rest a ruddy quire,
Were seated round their blazing fire,
This tale the shepherd told :-

"I saw a crag, a lofty stone

As ever tempest beat!

Out of its head an Oak had grown,

A Broom out of its feet.

The time was March, a cheerful noon

The thaw-wind with the breath of June,
Breathed gently from the warm south-west:
When, in a voice sedate with age,
This Oak, a giant and a sage,
His neighbour thus addressed :-

'Eight weary weeks, through rock and clay, Along this mountain's edge,

The frost hath wrought both night and day, Wedge driving after wedge.

Look up! and think, above your head

What trouble surely will be bred;

Last night I heard a crash-'tis true,
The splinters took another road-
I see them yonder-what a load
For such a thing as you!

'You are preparing, as before, To deck your slender shape;

And yet, just three years back-no more--
You had a strange escape.

Down from yon cliff a fragment broke;
It came, you know, with fire and smoke,
And hitherward it bent its way:

This ponderous block was caught by me,
And o'er your head, as you may see,
'Tis hanging to this day!

"The thing had better been asleep,
Whatever thing it were,

Or breeze, or bird, or dog, or sheep,
That first did plant you there.
For you and your green twigs decoy
The little witless shepherd-boy

To come and slumber in your bower;

And, trust me, on some sultry noon,

Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!

Will perish in one hour.

'From me this friendly warning take'

The Broom began to doze,

And thus, to keep herself awake,

Did gently interpose :

'My thanks for your discourse are due;
That it is true, and more than true,
I know, and I have known it long;
Frail is the bond by which we hold
Our being, be we young or old,
Wise, foolish, weak, or strong.

'Disasters, do the best we can,
Will reach both great and small;
And he is oft the wisest man
Who is not wise at all.

For me, why should I wish to roam?
This spot is my paternal home,

It is my pleasant heritage;

My father, many a happy year,

Here spread his careless blossoms, here
Attained a good old age.

'E'en such as his may be my lot.
What cause have I to haunt
My heart with terrors? Am I not
In truth a favoured plant!

On me such bounty Summer pours,
That I am covered o'er with flowers;
And, when the frost is in the sky,
My branches are so fresh and gay
That you might look at me and say,
This plant can never die.

"The butterfly, all green and gold,
To me hath often flown,
Here in my blossoms to behold
Wings lovely as his own.

When grass is chill with rain or dew,
Beneath my shade the mother ewe
Lies with her infant lamb; I see
The love they to each other make,

And the sweet joy which they partake,
It is a joy to me.'

"Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;

The Broom might have pursued

Her speech, until the stars of night

Their journey had renewed:

But in the branches of the Oak

Two ravens now began to croak

Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;

And to her own green bower the breeze

That instant brought two stripling bees,

To rest and murmur there.

"One night, my children, from the North There came a furious blast; At break of day I ventured forth,

And near the cliff I passed.

The storm had fallen upon the Oak,
And struck him with a mighty stroke,
And whirled, and whirled him far away;
And in one hospitable cleft

The little careless Broom was left
To live for many a day."

IX.

THE REDBREAST AND THE BUTTERFLY,

ART thou the bird whom man loves best,
The pious bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English Robin;

The bird that comes about our doors
When autumn winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,

And Russia far inland?

The bird, whom by some name or other,
All men who know call thee their brother,
The darling of children and men?
Could Father Adam* open his eyes,
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.

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,

Did cover with leaves the little children

So painfully in the wood?

What ailed thee, Robin, that thou couldst 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 dressed,

*Paradise Lost, Book XI., where Adam points out to Eve the ominous sign of the eagle chasing "two birds of gayest plume," and the gentle hart and hind pursued by their enemy.