For the Master sees, alas! That unhappy Figure near him, Limping o'er the dewy grass, Where the road it fringes, sweet, Soft and cool to way-worn feet; And, O indignity! an Ass, By his noble Mastiff's side, Tether'd to the Waggon's tail: And the Ship, in all her pride, Following after in full sail!
Not to speak of Babe and Mother; Who, contented with each other, And, snug as birds in leafy arbour, Find, within, a blessed harbour!
With eager eyes the Master pries:
Looks in and out-and through and through; Says nothing-till at last he spies
A wound upon the Mastiff's head,
A wound-where plainly might be read What feats an Ass's hoof can do!
But drop the rest :—this aggravation, This complicated provocation, A hoard of grievances unseal'd;
past forgiveness it repeal'd;
And thus, and through distemper'd blood On both sides, Benjamin the good, The patient, and the tender-hearted, Was from his Team and Waggon parted; When duty of that day was o'er,
Laid down his whip-and served no more.- Nor could the waggon long survive Which Benjamin had ceased to drive: It linger'd on;-Guide after Guide Ambitiously the office tried; But each unmanageable hill
Call'd for his patience and his skill;— And sure it is, that through this night, And what the morning brought to light, Two losses had we to sustain,
We lost both WAGGONER and WAIN!
Accept, O friend, for praise or blame, The gift of this adventurous Song; A record which I dared to frame, Though timid scruples check'd me long; They check'd me-and I left the theme Untouch'd-in spite of many a gleam Of fancy which thereon was shed, Like pleasant sunbeams shifting still Upon the side of a distant hill: But Nature might not be gainsaid; For what I have and what I miss I sing of these-it makes my bliss! Nor is it I who play the part, But a shy spirit in my heart,
That comes and goes-will sometimes leap From hiding-places ten years' deep;
Or haunts me with familiar face- Returning, like a ghost unlaid, Until the debt I owe be paid. Forgive me, then; for I had been
On friendly terms with this Machine: In him, while he was wont to trace Our roads, through many a long year's space, A living Almanack had we;
We had a speaking Diary,
That, in this uneventful place,
Gave to the days a mark and name
By which we knew them when they came. -Yes, I, and all about me here,
Through all the changes of the
Had seen him through the mountains go, In pomp of mist or pomp of snow, Majestically huge and slow:
Or, with a milder grace adorning
The Landscape of a summer's morning; While Grasmere smoothed her liquid plain
The moving image to detain;
And mighty Fairfield, with a chime Of echoes, to his march kept time; When little other business stirr'd, And little other sound was heard; In that delicious hour of balm, Stillness, solitude, and calm, While yet the Valley is array'd, On this side with a sober shade;
On that is prodigally bright
Crag, lawn, and wood-with rosy light.— But most of all, thou lordly Wain!
I wish to have thee here again,
When windows flap and chimney roars, And all is dismal out of doors;
And sitting by my fire, I see
Eight sorry Carts, no less a train! Unworthy Successors of thee,
Come straggling through the wind and rain: And oft, as they pass slowly on,
Beneath my window-one by one- See, perch'd upon the naked height The summit of a cumbrous freight, A single Traveller-and there Another-then perhaps a Pair- The lame, the sickly, and the old; Men, Women, heartless with the cold; And Babes in wet and starveling plight; Which once, be weather as it might, Had still a nest within a nest,
Thy shelter-and their Mother's breast! Then most of all, then far the most, Do I regret what we have lost; Am grieved for that unhappy sin Which robb'd us of good Benjamin;- And of his stately Charge, which none Could keep alive when he was gone!
If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie
Near the green holly, And wearily at length should fare; He needs but look about, and there Thou art!-a Friend at hand, to scare His melancholy.
A hundred times, by rock or bower, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension; Some steady love; some brief delight; Some memory that had taken flight; Some chime of fancy wrong or right; Or stray invention.
If stately passions in me burn,
And one chance look to Thee should turn, I drink out of an humbler uru
A lowlier pleasure;
The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure.
When, smitten by the morning ray, I see thee rise, alert and gay,
Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play With kindred gladness:
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest 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 course, bold lover of the sun, And cheerful when the day's begun As morning Leveret,
Thy long-lost praise' thou shalt regain; Dear shalt thou be to future mea As in old time;-thou not in vain, Art Nature's favourite.
A WHIRL-BLAST from behind the hill Rushed o'er the wood with startling sound: Then-all at once the air was still, And showers of hailstones pattered round. Where leafless Oaks towered high above,
I sat within an undergrove
Of tallest hollies, tall and green;
A fairer bower was never seen.
See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid
From year to year the spacious floor With withered leaves is covered o'er, And all the year the bower is green. But see! where'er the hailstones drop, The withered leaves all skip and hop, There's not a breeze-no breath of air- Yet here, and there, and every where Along the floor, beneath the shade By those embowering hollies made, The leaves in myriads jump and spring, As if with pipes and music rare Some Robin Good-fellow were there, And all those leaves, in festive glee, Were dancing to the minstrelsy.
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. Upon 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 sight he dazzles, half deceives, A Bird so like the dancing Leaves; Then flits, and from the Cottage eaves 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.
THE CONTRAST.
WITHIN her gilded cage confined,
I saw a dazzling Belle,
A Parrot of that famous kind Whose name is NON-PAREIL.
Like beads of glossy jet her eyes; And, smoothed by Nature's skill, With pearl or gleaming agate vies Her finely-curved bill.
Her plumy Mantle's living hues In mass opposed to mass, Outshine the splendour that imbues The robes of pictured glass.
And, sooth to say, an apter Mate Did never tempt the choice Of feathered Thing most delicate In figure and in voice.
But, exiled from Australian Bowers,
And singleness her lot,
She trills her song with tutored powers,
Or mocks each casual note.
No more of pity for regrets
With which she may have striven!
Now but in wantonness she frets, Or spite, if cause be given;
Arch, volatile, a sportive Bird
By social glee inspired; Ambitious to be seen or heard, And pleased to be admired!
This moss-lined shed, green, soft, and dry, Harbours a self-contented Wren, Not shunning man's abode, though shy, Almost as thought itself, of human ken.
Strange places, coverts unendeared She never tried; the very nest
In which this Child of Spring was reared, Is warmed, thro' winter, by her feathery breast.
To the bleak winds she sometimes gives A slender unexpected strain; That tells the Hermitess still lives, Though she appear not, and be sought in vain.
Say, Dora! tell me by yon placid Moon,
If called to choose between the favoured pair, Which would you be,—the Bird of the Saloon, By Lady fingers tended with nice care, Caressed, applauded, upon dainties fed, Or Nature's DARKLING of this mossy Shed?
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, '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, Since the day I found thee out, Little flower!-I'll make a stir Like a great 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 '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 its 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 noue.
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 her home; Spring is coming, Thou art come!
Comfort have thou of thy merit, Kindly, unassuming Spirit! Careless of thy neighbourhood, Thou dost shew 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, Scorned and slighted upon earth! Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing, Singing at my heart's command, In the lanes my thoughts pursuing,
I will sing, as doth behove, Hymns in praise of what I love!
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