IT IS NOT TO BE THOUGHT OF
It is not to be thought of that the Flood a
Of British freedom, which, to the open seat
Thou faery voyager! that dost float
In such clear water, that thy boat
May rather seem
To brood on air than on an earthly stream;
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;
O blessed vision! happy child!
Thou art so exquisitely wild,
I think of thee with many fears
For what may be thy lot in future years.
I thought of times when Pain might
be thy guest.
Lord of thy house and hospitality;
And Grief, uneasy lover! never rest
But when she sate within the touch of
O too industrious folly!
O vain and causeless melancholy!
Nature will either end thee quite ;
Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,
Preserve for thee, by individual right,
A young lamb's heart among the full-
grown flocks.
What hast thou to do with sorrow,
Or the injuries of to-morrow?
Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn
brings forth,
Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks,
Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;
A gem that glitters while it lives,
And no forewarning gives;
But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife
Slips in a moment out of life.
IN youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy;
But now my own delights I make,-
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And gladly Nature's love partake,
Of Thee, sweet Daisy !
Thee Winter in the garland wears
That thinly decks his few gray hairs;
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,
That she may sun thee;
Whole Summer-fields are thine by right;
And Autumn, melancholy Wight!
Doth in thy crimson head delight
When rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane;
Pleased at his greeting thee again;
Yet nothing daunted.
Nor grieved if thou be set at nought: And oft alone in nooks remote
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought When such are wanted.
Be violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose
Proud be the rose, with rains and dew
Her head impearling:
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
Yet hast not gone without thy fame;
Thou art indeed by many a claim
The Poet's darling.
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 scar
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;
If stately passions in me burn,
And one chance look to Thee should tur
I drink out of an humbler urn
A lowlier pleasure:
The homely sympathy that heeds The common life our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs
Of hearts at leisure.
Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,
When thou art up, alert and gay,
Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits p
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 whet
Nor whither going.
A little cyclops, with one eye
Staring to threaten and defy.
That thought comes next-and instantly
The freak is over,
The shape will vanish-and behold
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,
Sef-poised in air thou seem'st to rest ;-
May peace come never to his nest,
Who shall reprove thee!
Se, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the bonos formerly paid to this flower. (Wordsworth.)
There, too, a Son, his joy and pride,
(Not three weeks past the Stripling
died,)
Lies gathered to his Father's side,
Soul-moving sight!
Yet one to which is not denied
Some sad delight:
For he is safe, a quiet bed
Hath early found among the dead,
Harbored where none can be misled,
Wronged, or distrest;
And surely here it may be said
That such are blest.
And oh for Thee, by pitying grace
Checked oft-times in a devious race,
May He who halloweth the place
Where Man is laid
Receive thy Spirit in the embrace
For which it prayed!
Sighing I turned away; but ere
Night fell I heard, or seemed to hear,
Music that sorrow comes not near,
A ritual hymn,
Chanted in love that casts out fear
By Seraphim.
AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND
This delightful creature and her demeanor are particularly described in my Sister's Journal. (Wordsworth.)
SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower!
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head:
And these gray rocks; that household
lawn;
Those trees, a veil just half withdrawn ;
This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake;
This little bay; a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy Abode-
In truth together do ye seem
Like something fashioned in a dream ;
Such Forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep!
But, O fair Creature! in the light
Of common day, so heavenly bright,
I bless Thee, Vision as thou art
I bless thee with a human heart;
God shield thee to thy latest years!
Thee neither know I, nor thy peers;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.
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