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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,


window one by one
See, perched 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 à 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 robbed us of good Benjamin :-
And of his stately Charge, which none
Could keep alive when He was gone !



Her* divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw
I could some instruction draw,
And raise pleasure to the height
Through the meanest object's sight.
By the murmur of a spring
Or the least bough's rustelling ;
By a Daisy whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed ;
Or a shady bush or tree ;
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.



youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill, in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent,

Most pleased when most uneasy ;

. His Muse.

But now my own delights I make,
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And gladly Nature's love partake

Of thee, sweet Daisy !

When soothed a while by milder airs, Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly shades his few grey hairs ;

Spring cannot shun 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 ; If welcomed once thou count'st it gain;

Thou art not daunted, Nor car'st if thou be set at naught: 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 ;
Proyd be the Rose, with rains and dews

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 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 fight;
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 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.

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.

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