THE REDBREAST AND BUTTERFLY.

ART thou the Bird whom Man loves best,
The pious Bird with the scarlet breast,
Our little English Robin;

The Bird that comes about our doors
When Autumn winds are sobbing?
Art thou the Peter of Norway boors?
Their Thomas in Finland,

And Russia far inland?

The Bird, who by some name or other
All men who know thee call their Brother,
The Darling of children and men?
Could Father Adam1 open his eyes
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.

If the Butterfly knew but his friend,
Hither his flight he would bend;
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?

1 See Paradise Lost, Book XI., where Adam points out to Eve the ominous sign of the Eagle chasing "two Birds of gayest plume," and the gentle Hart and Hind pursued by their enemy.

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,
He is the friend of our summer gladness:
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the sunny weather,
And fly about in the air together!
His beautiful bosom is drest,
In crimson as bright as thine own:
If thou would'st be happy in thy nest,
O pious Bird! whom man loves best,
Love him or leave him alone!

WRITTEN IN MARCH,

WHILE RESTING ON THE BRIDGE AT THE FOOT OF BROTHER'S WATER.

THE cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,

The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun ;

The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest ;

The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated
The Snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The Ploughboy is whooping-anon-anon :
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing ;
The rain is over and gone!

TO THE DAISY.

BRIGHT flower, whose home is everywhere!
A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care,

And oft, 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!

And wherefore? Man is soon deprest;
A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest,
Does little on his memory rest,

Or on his reason;

But Thou would'st teach him how to find

A shelter under every wind,

A hope for times that are unkind

And every season.

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.1

PANSIES, Lilies, Kingcups, Daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there's a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are Violets,

They will have a place in story:
There's a flower that shall be mine,
'Tis the little Celandine.

Eyes of some men travel far

For the finding of a star;

Up and down the heavens they go,
Men that keep a mighty rout!
I'm as great as they, I trow,
Since the day I found thee out,
Little flower!-I'll make a stir,
Like a great astronomer.

Modest, yet withal an Elf

Bold, and lavish of thyself;

Since we needs must first have met
I have seen thee, high and low,
Thirty years or more, and yet
'Twas a face I did not know;
Thou hast now, go where I may,
Fifty greetings in a day.

1 Common Pilewort.

Ere a leaf is on a bush,

In the time before the Thrush
Has a thought about her nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless prodigal ;
Telling tales about the sun,

When we've little warmth, or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood!
Travel with the multitude:

Never heed them; I aver

That they all are wanton wooers; But the thrifty Cottager,

Who stirs little out of doors,

Joys to spy thee near her home; Spring is coming, Thou art come!

Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming Spirit!
Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane-there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But 'tis good enough for thee.

Ill befall the yellow Flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no ;
Others, too, of lofty mien ;
They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble Celandine!