Here on his hours he hung as on a book;
On his own time here would he float away,
As doth a fly upon a summer brook;

But go to-morrow-or belike to-day

Seek for him, he is fled; and whither none can say.

Thus often would he leave our peaceful home,
And find elsewhere his business or delight;
Out of our Valley's limits did he roam :
Full many a time, upon a stormy night,
His voice came to us from the neighbouring
height:

Oft did we see him driving full in view
At mid-day when the sun was shining bright;
What ill was on him, what he had to do,
A mighty wonder bred among our quiet crew.
Ah! piteous sight it was to see this Man
When he came back to us, a withered flower,-
Or like a sinful creature, pale and wan.

Down would he sit; and without strength or power

Look at the common grass from hour to hour:
And oftentimes, how long I fear to say,
Where apple-trees in blossom made a bower,
Retired in that sunshiny shade he lay :
And, like a naked Indian, slept himself away.

Great wonder to our gentle tribe it was
Whenever from our Valley he withdrew;

For happier soul no living creature has
Than he had, being here the long day through,
Some thought he was a lover, and did woo:
Some thought far worse of him, and judged
him wrong:

But verse was what he had been wedded to;
And his own mind did like a tempest strong
Come to him thus, and drove the weary Wight
along.

With him there often walked in friendly guise,
Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree,
A noticeable Man with large gray eyes,
And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly
As if a blooming face it ought to be;
Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear
Deprest by weight of musing phantasy;
Profound his forehead was, though not severe ;
Yet some did think that he had little business
here.

Sweet heaven forefend! his was a lawful right; Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy;

His limbs would toss about him with delight Like branches when strong winds the trees

annoy.

Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy

To banish listlessness and irksome care; He would have taught you how you might employ

Yourself; and many did to him repair,—
And, certes, not in vain; he had inventions

rare.

Expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried: Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay,

Made to his ear attentively applied

A pipe on which the wind would deftly play;
Glasses he had, that little things display,
The beetle panoplied in gems and gold,
A mailed angel on a battle day;

The mysteries that cups of flowers infold,
And all the gorgeous sights which fairies do
behold.

He would entice that other man to hear
His music, and to view his imagery:

And, sooth, these two did love each other dear,
As far as love in such a place could be;
There did they dwell-from earthly labour free,
As happy spirits as were ever seen;

If but a bird, to keep them company,

Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween, As pleased as if the same had been a maiden queen.

TO H. C.,* SIX YEARS OLD.

O THOU! whose fancies from afar are brought;
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,
And fittest to unutterable thought

The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;
Thou faery voyager! that dost float,
In such clear water, that thy boat

May rather seem

To brood on air than on an earthly stream;
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky
Where earth and heaven do make one imagery!
O blessed vision! happy child!

That art so exquisitely wild,

I think of thee with many fears

For what may be thy lot in future years.

I thought of times when pain might be thy guest,

Lord of thy house and hospitality!

And grief, uneasy lover! never rest

But when she sate within the touch of thee.

Oh! too industrious folly!

Oh! vain and causeless melancholy !

Nature will either end thee quite;

Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,

Preserve for thee, by individual right,

A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks.

* Hartley Coleridge.

What hast thou to do with sorrow,

Or the injuries of to-morrow?

Thou art a dewdrop, which the morn brings

forth,

Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks;

Or to be trailed along the soiling earth!

A gem that glitters while it lives,

And no forewarning gives;

But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife
Slips in a moment out of life.

1802.

TO THE DAISY.

"Her* divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw

I could some instruction draw,
And raise pleasure to the height
Through the meanest object's sight.
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustelling;
By a Daisy whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed;
Or a shady bush or tree;
She could more infuse in me

Than all Nature's beauties can

In some other wiser man."-G. WITHER.

IN youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill in discontent

* His Muse.