JOMMUNION with thy mother's eyes,
With Nature! Surely she,
Among her thousand sympathies,
Hath one caress for thee!
Behold, in all thy varied moods,
In passion and in grief,
She sets her answering attitudes
Of comfort and relief.
Old shaggy gnarls the lichen frets-
Steep banks of mountain lanes-
Moss-cushioned arms of rivulets-
The hush of woodland rains.
Faint sighs of rushes in the fens,
Faint lispings of the tide,
Faint splashes down the gloomy glens
Of waters undescried.
Thin throbbing films of mellow light,
Wide woven in the west;
And cool star crystals, which the night
Breeds on her purple breast.
Long bars of creeping clouds, and sheets
Of wild electric flame,
And all the unregarded sweets
That melt in Nature's name.
Behold, they are not only fair,
Each in its fruitful arm
Hath truth and wisdom everywhere
To comfort and to charm.
JOW 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 yet is flowerless; but how gay
With his red stalks upon this sunny day!
And as his tufts of leaves he spreads, content
With a hard bed, and scanty nourishment,
Mix'd with the green, some shine, not lacking power,
To rival Summer's brightest scarlet flower;
And flowers they might well seem to passers-by,
If look'd at only with a careless eye;
Flow'rs, 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?
Is the string touch'd 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 over-prized,
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!
The Garland of Wild Roses.
HE cloud of the rain is beneath thee. Thou
Palaced in glory; but morn hath begun
A dark day for man, while the sunbeams thou wingest, Bird of the sun! Bird of the sun!
They hear thee, but see thee not-sleepy bees hear thee,
While under sad boughs the sad rivulets run;
But thou art all music, care cannot get near thee,
Bird of the sun! Bird of the sun!
And when from light's fields thou descendest, and over Thy nest the wide gloom spreads its canopy dun, How sweet will thy sleep be among the sweet clover, Bird of the sun! Bird of the sun!
And, there, a white network of dewdrops the fairies, To chain leaf and flower, in a frolic have spun; While nigh thy dear home the tipp'd ear of the hare is, Bird of the sun! Bird of the sun!
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