IF thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, The stars pre-eminent in magnitude, And they that from the zenith dart their beams, (Visible though they be to half the earth, Though half a sphere be conscious of their brightness) Are yet of no diviner origin, No purer essence, than the one that burns, Like an untended watch-fire, on the ridge Of some dark mountain; or than those which seem Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps Among the branches of the leafless trees; All are the undying offspring of one Sire: To a Butterfly. 62 The Complaint of a Forsaken Indian Woman 66 Stanzas written in my Pocket-copy of Repentance. A Pastoral Ballad 8988 66 67 68 63 The Affliction of Margaret 68 The Cottager to her Infant Strange fits of passion have I known She dwelt among the untrodden ways 81 82 85 |