DAFFODILS. WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd A host of golden daffodils Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, The waves beside them danced, but they A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company; I gazed-and gazed-but little thought For oft, when on my couch I lie, D WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. AY-STARS! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, Ye matin worshippers! who bending lowly. 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Which God hath planned, To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, There-as in solitude and shade I wander The ways of God Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers, Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers, From loneliest nook. Floral apostles! that in dewy splendor "Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory, In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist! Of love to all. Not useless are ye, flowers! though made for pleasure: Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night, From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight. Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento mori, Yet fount of hope. Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! And second birth. AMERICAN SKIES. 'HE sunny Italy may boast The beauteous tints that flush her skies, I only know how fair they stand And they are fair: a charm is theirs, That earth-the proud, green earth—has not, With all the hues, and forms, and airs, That haunt her sweetest spot. Oh! when, amid the throng of men, Away from this cold earth, WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. FLOWERS THE GEMS OF NATURE. Of richest crimson; while, in thorny moss EMS of the changing autumn, how beautiful ye The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek. Shining from your glossy stems like many a Peeping through the long grass, smiling on the down, Yellow flowers of autumn, how beautiful ye are ! RECOLLECTIONS OF ENGLISH SCENERY. AUNTS of my youth! Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet! To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft To ease his panting team, stopped with a stone With fond regret I recollect e'en now I loved her rudest scenes-warrens, and heaths, THE GRAPE-VINE SWING. ITHE and long as the serpent train, Springing and clinging from tree to tree, Now darting upward, now down again, With a twist and a twirl that are strange to Never took serpent a deadlier hold, Yet no foe that we fear to seek The boy leaps wild to thy rude embrace; Advancing higher still, Thy bulging arms bear as soft a cheek The prospect widens, and the village church For even those orchards round the Norman farms, Where woods of ash and beech, The cottage garden; most for use designed, Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine And pansies rayed, and freaked, and mottled pinks, As ever on lover's breast found place; O giant strange of our southern woods! I dream of thee still in the well-known spot, MY HEART LEAPS UP. Y heart leaps up when I behold Or let me die! The child is father of the man; THE CLOSE OF SPRING. 'HE garlands fade that spring so lately wove; Anemonies that spangled every grove, And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. Are the fond visions of thy early day, Another May new buds and flowers shall bring ; And, though his path through thorns and roughness lay, Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding flowers; Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree, The sense of sorrow he a while may lose; So have I sought thy flowers, fair poesy! So charmed my way with friendship and the muse. But darker now grows life's unhappy day, Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come; Her pencil sickening fancy throws away, And weary hope reclines upon the tomb, And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, Where the pale spectre care pursues no more! CHARLOTTE Smith. THE WOOD-NYMPH. HY should I, with a mournful, morbid spleen, At least the poet-winds are bold and loud— At least the sunset glorifies the cloud, And forests old and proud Rustle their verdurous banners o'er the waste. Nature, though wild her forms, sustains me still; Glows with strange lights; Through solemn pine-groves the small rivulets fleet Sparkling, as if a naiad's silvery feet, In quick and coy retreat, Glanced through the star-beams on calm summer rights; And the great sky, the royal heaven above, While far remote, Just where the sunlight smites the woods with fire, Wakens the multitudinous sylvan choir, Their innocent love's desire Poured in a rill of song from each harmonious throat. NATURE'S CHAIN. OOK round our world; behold the chain of love All forms that perish other forms supply, THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD. 'HOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea, O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice! Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit nevermore. Come, quit with me the shore, For gladness and the light, RICHARD HENRY DANA. THE SWALLOW. OME summer visitant, attach To my reed-roof thy nest of clay, As fables tell, an Indian sage, The Hindustani woods among, I wish I did his power possess, That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee, What our vain systems only guess, And know from what wild wilderness Thou camest o'er the sea. CHARLOTTE Smith. ROBERT OF LINCOLN. ERRILY swinging on brier and weed, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name: Snug and safe is that nest of ours, Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Spink, spank, spink; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she, SONG OF WOOD-NYMPHS. One weak chirp is her only note, Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat : Bob o'-link, bob o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Six white eggs on a bed of hay, Nice good wife, that never goes out, Soon as the little ones chip the shell Six wide mouths are open for food; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seed for the hungry brood. Bob o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee. OME here, come here, and dwell Come here, come here, and tell Is it for love (sweet pain !) That thus thou dar'st complain Unto our pleasant shades, our summer leaves, Where nought else grieves? Come here, come here, and lie By whispering stream! Here no one dares to die For love's sweet dream; But health all seek, and joy, And shun perverse annoy, And race along green paths till close of day, And laugh-alway! Or else, through half the year, On rushy floor, We lie by waters clear, And when bright day is done, We hide 'neath bells of flowers or nodding corn, And dream-till morn! BRYAN WALLER Proctor (Barry Cornwall). ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. O you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet, and thrush say, "I love, and I love!" e winter they're silent, the wind is so strong; at it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song. green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, I singing and loving-all come back together. the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, green fields below him, the blue sky above, the sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, Love my love, and my love loves me." SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. THE BOBOLINK. AYEST songster of the spring! And was she very fair and young, Or kiss more cheeks than one? OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE. S WEET poet of the woods, a long adieu ! Farewell soft minstrel of the early year! Ah! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on the night's dull ear. Whether on spring thy wandering flights await, Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate, And still protect the song she loves so well. With cautious step the love lorn youth shall glide Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest; And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide The gentle bird who sings of pity best: For still thy voice shall soft affections move, And still be dear to sorrow and to love! W SAMUEL ROGERS. THE REDBREAST. HEN that the fields put on their gay attire, But when pale winter lights the social fire, And meads with slime are sprent and ways with mire, Thou charmest us with thy soft and solemn hymn, From battlement, or barn, or hay-stack trim; And now not seldom tunest, as if for hire, Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch The pittance due to thy well-warbled song: Sweet bird, sing on! for oft near lonely hatch, Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic throng, And oft for entrance 'neath the peaceful thatch, Full many a tale have told and ditty long. JOHN BAMPFylde. |