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As lark or leveret,
Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain ;
Art Nature's favourite.*
TO THE SAME FLOWER.
WITH little here to do or see
Of things that in the great world be, Daisy! again I talk to thee,
For thou art worthy, Thou unassuming Common-place Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace, Which Love makes for thee!
Oft on the dappled turf at ease
I sit, and play with similies,
Loose types of things through all degrees,
Thoughts of thy raising:
And many a fond and idle name
I give to thee, for praise or blame,
A nun demure of lowly port;
Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, In thy simplicity the sport
Of all temptations;
A queen in crown of rubies drest;
Are all, as seems to suit thee best,
A little cyclops, with one eye
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
*See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower.
In heaven above thee!
Yet like a star, with glittering crest,
Bright Flower for by that name at last,
I call thee, and to that cleave fast,
That breath'st with me in sun and air,
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
One have I marked, the happiest guest
In joy of voice and pinion!
And this is thy dominion.
While birds, and butterflies, and flowers,
A Life, a Presence like the Air,
Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Amid yon tuft of hazel trees,
That cover him all over.
Often have I sighed to measure
Blithe of heart, from week to week
Drawn by what peculiar spell,
Thou art not beyond the moon,
Who will love my little Flower.
THE SEVEN SISTERS;
THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE.
SEVEN Daughters had Lord Archibald,
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The darling of children and men?
And find his way to me,
Under the branches of the tree:
In and out, he darts about;
Can this be the bird, to man so good,
That, after their bewildering,
Covered with leaves the little children,
So painfully in the wood!
What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue
A beautiful creature,
That is gentle by nature?
Beneath the summer sky
From flower to flower let him fly;
"Tis all that he wishes to do.
The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness,