THE GREEN LINNET.

[Composed 1803.-Published 1807.]
BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed
Their snow-white blossoms on my head,
With brightest sunshine round me spread
Of spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet
To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet,
My last year's friends together.

One have I marked, the happiest guest
In all this covert of the blest:
Hail to Thee, far above the rest

In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array,
Presiding Spirit here to-day,

Dost lead the revels of the May;
And this is thy dominion.

While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
Make all one band of paramours,
Thou, ranging up and down the bowers,
Art sole in thy employment:

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My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
A Brother of the dancing leaves;
Then flits, and from the cottage eaves 35
Pours forth his song in gushes;

As if by that exulting strain

He mocked and treated with disdain
The voiceless Form he chose to feign,
While fluttering in the bushes.

X.

TO A SKY-LARK.

[Composed 1805.-Published 1807.]

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UP with me! up with me into the clouds!
For thy song, Lark, is strong;
Up with me, up with me into the clouds !
Singing, singing,

With clouds and sky about thee ringing, 5
Lift me, guide me, till I find

That spot which seems so to thy mind!

I have walked through wildernesses dreary,

And to-day my heart is weary;

Had I now the wings of a Faery,

Up to thee would I fly.

ΙΟ

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.1 [Composed April 30, 1802.-Published 1807.] 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,

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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!
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 thee.

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Since the day I found thee out, Little Flower-I'll make a stir, & Like a sage astronomer.

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Of a joyous train ensuing,

Serving at my heart's command,

Tasks that are no tasks renewing, I will sing, as doth behove, Hymns in praise of what I love!

XII.

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 rising 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-plots of mould
All about with full-blown flowers,
Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold!
With the proudest thou art there,
Mantling in the tiny square.

Often have I sighed to measure
By myself a lonely pleasure,
Sighed to think I read a book
Only read, perhaps, by me;
Yet I long could overlook
Thy bright coronet and Thee,
And thy arch and wily ways,
And thy store of other praise.

Blithe of heart, from week to week
Thou dost play at hide-and-seek;
While the patient primrose sits
Like a beggar in the cold,
Thou, a flower of wiser wits,
Slip'st into thy sheltering hold;
Liveliest of the vernal train
When ye all are out again.

Drawn by what peculiar spell,
By what charm of sight or smell,
Does the dim-eyed curious Bee,
Labouring for her waxen cells,
Fondly settle upon Thee

Prized above all buds and bells

The Seven are laid, and in the shade

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Opening daily at thy side,

They lie like fawns-reposing.

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By the season multiplied?1

Away they fly to left, to right

Of your fair household, Father-knight, 30 Methinks you take small heed!

G

But now, upstarting with affright

At noise of man and steed,

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, 30
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!

But in man was ne'er such daring As yon Hawk exhibits, pairing His brave spirit with the war in

The stormy skies!

"Mark him, how his power he uses,
Lays it by, at will resumes!
Mark, ere for his haunt he chooses
Clouds and utter glooms!

A crimson as bright as thine own: Wouldst thou be happy in thy nest, O pious Bird! whom man loves best, Love him, or leave him alone!

XVI.

SONG FOR THE SPINNING WHEEL.
FOUNDED UPON A BELIEF PREVALENT AMONG
THE PASTORAL VALES OF WESTMORELAND.
[Composed 1812.-Published 1820.]

SWIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel!
Night has brought the welcome hour,
When the weary fingers feel
Help, as if from faery power;
Dewy night o'ershades the ground;

Sunward now his flight he raises, Catches fire, as seems, and blazes With uninjured plumes!"

ANSWER.

"Stranger, 'tis no act of courage
Which aloft thou dost discern;
No bold bird gone forth to forage
'Mid the tempest stern;
But such mockery as the nations
See, when public perturbations
Lift men from their native stations,
Like yon TUFT OF FERN;

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Turn the swift wheel round and round!

Now, beneath the starry sky,

Couch the widely-scattered sheep;

Ply the pleasant labour, ply!

For the spindle, while they sleep,

Runs with speed more smooth and fine,
Gathering up a trustier line.

Short-lived likings may be bred
By a glance from fickle eyes;
But true love is like the thread
Which the kindly wool supplies,
When the flocks are all at rest,
Sleeping on the mountain's breast.

ΙΟ

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