Hath often eased my pensive breast And all day long I number yet, An instinct call it, a blind sense; Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Child of the Year! that round dost run Thy pleasant course, when day's begun As ready to salute the sun As lark or leveret, Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ; Than in old time; thou not in vain Art Nature's favorite.* 1802. *See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honors for merly paid to this flower. VIII. TO THE SAME FLOWER. WITH little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Thou unassuming Commonplace Oft on the dappled turf at ease Loose types of things through all degrees, Thoughts of thy raising: And many a fond and idle name I give to thee, for praise or blame, A nun demure, of lowly port: Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, Of all temptations; A queen in crown of rubies drest; A starveling in a scanty vest; Are all, as seems to suit thee best, Thy appellations. A little cyclops, with one eye That thought comes next, and instantly A silver shield with boss of gold, I see thee glittering from afar, Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; May peace come never to his est, Who shall reprove thee! Bright Flower! for by that name at last, I call thee, and to that cleave fast, That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature! 1805. IX. THE GREEN LINNET. BENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed In this sequestered nook how sweet 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: Thyself thy own enjoyment. Amid yon tuft of hazel-trees, Yet seeming still to hover; There where the flutter of his wings My dazzled sight he oft deceives, Pours forth a song As if by that exulting strain He mocked and treated with disdain X. TO A SKYLARK. UP with me! up with me into the clouds! Up with me! up with me into the clouds ! With clouds and sky about thee ringing, That spot which seems so to thy mind! 1803. |