Poems in Two Volumes Volume Ii Part 7

_TO THE DAISY_.

The two following Poems were overflowings of the mind in composing the one which stands first in the first Volume.

With little here to do or see Of things that in the great world be, Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee, For thou art worthy, Thou una.s.suming Common-place Of Nature, with that homely face, And yet with something of a grace, Which Love makes for thee!

Oft do I sit by thee at ease, And weave a web of similies, 10 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, As is the humour of the game, While I am gazing.

A Nun demure of lowly port, Or sprightly Maiden of Love's Court, In thy simplicity the sport Of all temptations; 20 A Queen in crown of rubies drest, A Starveling in a scanty vest, Are all, as seem to suit thee best, Thy appellations.

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 s.h.i.+eld with boss of gold, 30 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, Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;-- May peace come never to his nest, Who shall reprove thee! 40

Sweet Flower! for by that name at last, When all my reveries are past, I call thee, and to that cleave fast, Sweet silent Creature!

That breath'st with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature!

_TO THE SAME FLOWER_.

Bright Flower, whose home is every where!

A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care, And all the long year through the heir Of joy or sorrow, Methinks that there abides in thee Some concord with humanity, Given to no other Flower I see The forest thorough!

Is it that Man is soon deprest?

A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest, 10 Does little on his memory rest, Or on his reason, And Thou would'st teach him how to find A shelter under every wind.

A hope for times that are unkind And every season?

Thou wander'st the wide world about, Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt, With friends to greet thee, or without, Yet pleased and willing; 20 Meek, yielding to the occasion's call, And all things suffering from all, Thy function apostolical In peace fulfilling.

_INCIDENT_, Characteristic of a favourite Dog, which belonged to a Friend of the Author.

On his morning rounds the Master Goes to learn how all things fare; Searches pasture after pasture, Sheep and Cattle eyes with care; And, for silence or for talk, He hath Comrades in his walk; Four Dogs, each pair of different breed, Distinguished two for scent, and two for speed.

See, a Hare before him started!

--Off they fly in earnest chace; 10 Every Dog is eager-hearted, All the four are in the race!

And the Hare whom they pursue Hath an instinct what to do; Her hope is near: no turn she makes; But, like an arrow, to the River takes.

Deep the River was, and crusted Thinly by a one night's frost; But the nimble Hare hath trusted To the ice, and safely crost; 20 She hath crost, and without heed All are following at full speed, When, lo! the ice, so thinly spread, Breaks--and the Greyhound, DART, is over head!

Better fate have PRINCE and SWALLOW-- See them cleaving to the sport!

Music has no heart to follow, Little Music, she stops short.

She hath neither wish nor heart.

Her's is now another part: 30 A loving Creature she, and brave!

And doth her best her struggling Friend to save.

From the brink her paws she stretches, Very hands as you would say!

And afflicting moans she fetches, As he breaks the ice away.

For herself she hath no fears, Him alone she sees and hears, Makes efforts and complainings; nor gives o'er Until her Fellow sunk, and reappear'd no more. 40

_TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE SAME DOG_.

Lie here sequester'd:--be this little mound For ever thine, and be it holy ground!

Lie here, without a record of thy worth, Beneath the covering of the common earth!

It is not from unwillingness to praise, Or want of love, that here no Stone we raise; More thou deserv'st; but _this_ Man gives to Man, Brother to Brother, _this_ is all we can.

Yet they to whom thy virtues made thee dear Shall find thee through all changes of the year: 10 This Oak points out thy grave; the silent Tree Will gladly stand a monument of thee.

I pray'd for thee, and that thy end were past; And willingly have laid thee here at last: For thou hadst liv'd, till every thing that chears In thee had yielded to the weight of years; Extreme old age had wasted thee away, And left thee but a glimmering of the day; Thy ears were deaf; and feeble were thy knees,-- saw thee stagger in the summer breeze, 20 Too weak to stand against its sportive breath, And ready for the gentlest stroke of death.

It came, and we were glad; yet tears were shed; Both Man and Woman wept when Thou wert dead; Not only for a thousand thoughts that were, Old household thoughts, in which thou hadst thy share; But for some precious boons vouchsafed to thee, Found scarcely any where in like degree!

For love, that comes to all; the holy sense, Best gift of G.o.d, in thee was most intense; 30 A chain of heart, a feeling of the mind, A tender sympathy, which did thee bind Not only to us Men, but to thy Kind: Yea, for thy Fellow-brutes in thee we saw The soul of Love, Love's intellectual law:-- Hence, if we wept, it was not done in shame; Our tears from pa.s.sion and from reason came, And, therefore, shalt thou be an honoured name!

_SONNET_.

ADMONITION, (Intended more particularly for the Perusal of those who may have happened to be enamoured of some beautiful Place of Retreat, in the Country of the Lakes.)

Yes, there is holy pleasure in thine eye!

--The lovely Cottage in the guardian nook Hath stirr'd thee deeply; with its own dear brook, Its own small pasture, almost its own sky!

But covet not th' Abode--oh! do not sigh, As many do, repining while they look, Sighing a wish to tear from Nature's Book This blissful leaf, with worst impiety.

Think what the home would be if it were thine, Even thine, though few thy wants!--Roof, window, door, The very flowers are sacred to the Poor, The roses to the porch which they entwine: Yea, all, that now enchants thee, from the day On which it should be touch'd, would melt, and melt away!