While Cam's ideal current glided by,
And antique towers nodded their foreheads high,
Citadels dear to studious privacy.
But Fortune, who had long been used to sport
With this tried Servant of a thankless Court,
Relenting met his wishes; and to you
The remnant of his days at least was true;
You, whom, though long deserted, he loved best;
You, Muses, books, fields, liberty, and rest!

Far happier they who, fixing hope and aim
On the humanities of peaceful fame,
Enter betimes with more than martial fire
The generous course, aspire, and still aspire;
Upheld by warnings heeded not too late
Stifle the contradictions of their fate,
And to one purpose cleave, their Being's godlike mate!

Thus, gifted Friend, but with the placid brow
That woman ne'er should forfeit, keep thy vow;
With modest scorn reject whate'er would blind
The ethereal eyesight, cramp the wingèd mind !
Then, with a blessing granted from above
To every act, word, thought, and look of love,
Life's book for Thee may lie unclosed, till age
Shall with a thankful tear bedrop its latest page*.

IV.

POOR RUBIN.*

(I OFTEN ask myself what will become of Rydal Mount after our.

day. Will the old walls and steps remain in front of the house and about the grounds, or will they be swept away with all the beautiful mosses and ferns and wild geraniums and other flowers which their rude construction suffered and encouraged to grow among them ?-This little wild flower-"Poor Robin” -is here constantly courting my attention, and exciting what may be called a domestic interest with the varying aspects of its stalks and leaves and flowers. Strangely do the tastes of men differ according to their employment and habits of life. “What a nice well would that be,” said a labouring man to me one day, “if all that rubbish was cleared off.” The "bubbish" was some of the most beautiful mosses and lichens and ferns and other wild growths that could possibly be seen. Defend us from the tyranny of trimness and neatness showing itself in this way! Chatterton says of freedom—“Upon her head wild weeds were spread” and depend upon it if “the marvellous boy" bad undertaken to give Flora a garland, he would have preferred what we are apt to call weeds to gardenflowers. True taste has an eye for both. Weeds have been called flowers out of place. I fear the place most people would assign to them is too limited. Let them come near to our abodes, as surely they may without impropriety or disorder.]

Now when the primrose makes a splendid show,
And lilies face the March-winds in full blow,
And humbler growths as moved with one desire
Put on, to welcome spring, their best attire,
Poor Robin is yet flowerless;
With his red stalks upon

sunny day!

but how gay

And, as his tufts of leaves he spreads, content
With a hard bed and scanty nourishment,
Mixed with the green, some shine not lacking power
To rival summer's brightest scarlet flower;
And flowers they well might seem to passers-by
If looked at only with a careless eye;
Flowers-or a richer produce (did it suit
The season) sprinklings of ripe strawberry fruit.
But while a thousand pleasures come unsought,
Why fix

upon

his wealth or want a thought? the string touched in prelude to a lay Of pretty fancies that would round him play When all the world acknowledged elfin sway ? Or does it suit our humour to commend Poor Robin as a sure and crafty friend, Whose practice teaches, spite of names to show Bright colours whether they deceive or no ? Nay, we would simply praise the free good-will With which, though slighted, he, on naked hill Or in warm valley, seeks his part to fill; Cheerful alike if bare of flowers as now, Or when his tiny gems shall deck his brow: Yet more, we wish that men by men despised, And such as lift their foreheads overpriced, Should sometimes think, where'er they chance to spy This child of Nature's own humility, What recompense is kept in store or left For all that seem neglected or bereft; With what nice care equivalents are given, How just, how bountiful, the hand of Heaven.

Marca, 1840.

[This poem was first printed in the Annual called the "Keepsake." The painter's name I am not sure of, but I think it was Holmes.]

That happy gleam of vernal eyes,
Those locks from summer's golden skies,

That o'er thy brow are shed;
That cheek—a kindling of the morn,
That lip—a rose-bud from the thorn,

I saw; and Fancy sped
To scenes Arcadian, whispering, through soft air,
Of bliss that grows without a care,
And happiness that never flies-
(How can it where love never dies?)
Whispering of promise, where no blight
Can reach the innocent delight;
Where pity, to the mind conveyed
In pleasure, is the darkest shade
That Time, unwrinkled grandsire, flings
From his smoothly gliding wings.

What mortal form, what earthly face
Inspired the pencil, lines to trace,
And mingle colours, that should breed
Such rapture, nor want power to feed;
For had thy charge been idle flowers,
Fair Damsel! o'er my captive mind,
To truth and sober reason blind,

'Mid that soft air, those long-lost bowers,
The sweet illusion might have hung, for hours.
Thanks to this tell-tale sheaf of

corn,
That touchingly bespeaks thee born
Life's daily tasks with them to share
Who, whether from their lowly bed
They rise, or rest the weary head,
Ponder the blessing they entreat
From Heaven, and feel what they repeat,
While they give utterance to the prayer
That asks for daily bread.

1823.

VI.

TO A REDBREAST—(IN SICKNESS.)

[Aluost the only verses by our lamented Sister Sara Hutchinson.]

Stay, little cheerful Robin ! stay,

And at my casement sing,
Though it should prove a farewell lay

And this our parting spring.

Though I, alas ! may ne'er enjoy

The promise in thy song;
A charm, that thought can not destroy,

Doth to thy strain belong.

Methinks that in my dying hour

Thy song would still be dear,
And with a more than earthly power

My passing Spirit cheer.