Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.

And all day long I number yet,
All seasons through, another debt,
Which I, wherever thou art met,
To thee am owing;

An instinct call it, a blind sense;
A happy, genial influence,

Coming one knows not how, nor whence,
Nor whither going.

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 ;
Nor be less dear to future men

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,
Daisy again I talk to thee,
For thou art worthy,

Thou unassuming Commonplace
Of Nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a grace,
Which Love makes for thee!

Oft on the dappled turf at ease
I sit, and play with similes,

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,
As is the humor of the game,
While I am gazing.

A nun demure, of lowly port:

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
In thy simplicity the sport

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
Staring to threaten and defy,

That thought comes next, and instantly

A silver shield with boss of gold,
That spreads itself, some faery bold
In fight to cover!

I see thee glittering from afar,
And then thou art a pretty star;
Not quite so fair as many are,
In heaven above thee!

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,
When all my reveries are past,

I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
Sweet, silent creature !

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
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:
A Life, a Presence like the air,
Scattering thy gladness without care,
Too blest with any one to pair;

Thyself thy own enjoyment.

Amid yon tuft of hazel-trees,
That twinkle to the gusty breeze,
Behold him perched in ecstasies,

Yet seeming still to hover;

There where the flutter of his wings
Upon his back and body flings
Shadows and sunny glimmerings,
That cover him all over.

My dazzled sight he oft deceives,
A brother of the dancing leaves;
Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves
in gushes;

Pours forth a song

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 SKYLARK.

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,
Lift me, guide me till I find

That spot which seems so to thy mind!

1803.