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.

There is madness about thee, and joy divine

In that song of thine;

Lift me, guide me high and high

To thy banqueting-place in the sky.

Joyous as morning,

Thou art laughing and scorning;
Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,

Drunken Lark! thou wouldst be loth

To be such a traveller as I.

Happy, happy Liver,

With a soul as strong as a mountain river

Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both!

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,
Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind;
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,
As full of gladness and as free of heaven,
I, with my fate contented, will plod on,

And hope for higher raptures, when life's day is

done.

XI.

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.*

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,

"T is 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 sage 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

* Common Pilewort.

'T was 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 her 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 at home;
Spring is coming, thou art come!

Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming Spirit!
Careless of thy neighborhood,
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 't is good enough for thee.

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,

Ill-requited upon earth;

Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,
Serving at my heart's command,
Tasks that are no tasks renewing,
I will sing, as doth behoove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!

XII.

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,

1308.

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.