TO A SKY-LARK.

UP with me! up with me into the clouds !
For thy song, Lark, is strong;

Up with me, up with me into the clouds !
Singing, singing,

With clouds and sky about thee ringing,
Lift me, guide me till I find

That spot which seems so to thy mind!

I have walked through wildernesses dreary,
And to-day my heart is weary;

Had I now the wings of a Faery,

Up to thee would I fly.

There's madness about thee, and joy divine

In that song of thine;

Lift me, guide me high and high

To thy banqueting-place in the sky.

Joyous as morning,

Thou art laughing and scorning;

Thou hast a nest for thy love and thy rest,
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth

To be such a traveller as I.

Happy, happy Liver,

With a soul as strong as a mountain River
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both!

Alas! my journey, rugged and uneven,
Through prickly moors or dusty ways must wind
But hearing thee, or others of thy kind,

As full of gladness and as free of heaven,

I, with my fate contented, will plod on,

And hope for higher raptures, when Life's day is done.

STRAY PLEASURES.

"-Pleasure is spread through the earth

In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find."

By their floating Mill,

That lies dead and still,

Behold yon Prisoners three,

The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames!
The Platform is small, but gives room for them all;
And they're dancing merrily.

From the shore come the notes

To their Mill where it floats,

To their House and their Mill tethered fast;

To the small wooden Isle where, their work to beguile, They from morning to even take whatever is given ;— And many a blithe day they have past.

In sight of the Spires,

All alive with the fires

Of the Sun going down to his rest,

In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,

They dance, there are three, as jocund as free,
While they dance on the calm river's breast.

Man and Maidens wheel,

They themselves make the Reel,

And their Music's a prey which they seize;
It plays not for them,-what matter? 'tis theirs ;
And if they had care, it has scattered their cares,
While they dance, crying,

66

Long as ye please!"

They dance not for me,

Yet mine is their glee!

Thus pleasure is spread through the earth

In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find;
Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,
Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.

The Showers of the Spring

Rouse the Birds, and they sing ;

If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight,
Each Leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss ;
Each Wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother ;
They are happy, for that is their right!

TO MY SISTER.

WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY.

It is the first mild day of March:

Each minute sweeter than before,

The Redbreast sings from the tall Larch

That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,

Which seems a sense of joy to yield

To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.

My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you ;—and, pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living Calendar :

We from to-day, my Friend, will date
The opening of the year.

Love, now an universal birth,

From heart to heart is stealing,

From earth to man, from man to earth :

-It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more

Than fifty years of reason:

Our minds shall drink at every pore

The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts will make,

Which they shall long obey:

We for the year to come may take

Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls

About, below, above,

We'll frame the measure of our souls:

They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my Sister! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress; -And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.

K

LINES

WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.

I HEARD a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played;
Their thoughts I cannot measure :—
But the least motion that they made,
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

From Heaven if this belief be sent,
If such be Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?