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TO THE SAME FLOWER. PLEASURES newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet: February last, my heart First at sight of thee was glad; All unheard of as thou art,

Thou must needs, I think, have had, Celandine, and long ago,

Praise of which I nothing know.

I have not a doubt but he,
Whosoe'er the man might be,
Who the first with pointed rays
(Workman worthy to be sainted)
Set the sign-board in a blaze,
When the rising Sun he painted,
Took the fancy from a glance
At thy glittering countenance.

Soon as gentle breezes bring
News of Winter's vanishing;
And the children build their bowers,
Sticking 'kerchief-plots of mould
All about with full-blown flowers,
Thick as sheep in shepherd's fold;
With the proudest thou art there,
Mantling in the tiny square.

Often have I sigh'd to measure
By myself a lonely pleasure, oblid
Sigh'd to think, I read a book
Only read, perhaps, by me;
Yet I long could overlook4q is
Thy bright coronet and Thee,
And thy arch and wily ways,
And thy store of other praise.

Blithe of heart, from week to week
Thou dost play at hide-and-seek;

While the patient primrose sits
Like a beggar in the cold,
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Thou, a flower of wiser wits, in qua
Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold;
Liveliest of the vernal train romp A
When ye all are out again. gigante
sambs en Gon
Drawn by what peculiar spell,
By what charm of sight or smell,
Does the dim-eyed curious Bee,
Labouring for her waxen cells,
Fondly settle upon Thee

ronddal Prized above all buds and bells T Opening daily at thy side,ade int By the season multiplied?ida

Thou art not beyond the Moon,
But a thing "beneath our shoon:"
Let the bold Discoverer thrid sol
In his bark the polar sea;
Rear who will a pyramid;
Praise it is enough for me,dat

If there be but three or four

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THE REDBREAST.

's at your elbow,-to your feeling e notes are from the floor or ceiling; d there's a riddle to be guess'd,

you have mark'd his heaving chest d busy throat, whose sink and swell ray the Elf that loves to dwell Robin's bosom, as a chosen cell. eart-pleased we smile upon the Bird een, and with like pleasure stirr'd mmend him when he's only heard. small and fugitive our gain npared with hers who long hath lain, h languid limbs and patient head posing on a lone sick-bed;1 ere now she daily hears a strain at cheats her of too busy cares, -es her pain, and helps her prayers. 1 who but this dear Bird beguiled fever of that pale-faced Child; v cooling, with his passing wing, - forehead, like a breeze of Spring? alling now, with descant soft d round her pillow from aloft, eet thoughts of angels hovering nigh, the invisible sympathy 'Matthew, Mark, and Luke, and John, ssing the bed she lies upon"? 2

sometimes, just as listening ends lumber, with the cadence blends ream of that low-warbled hymn ich old folk, fondly pleased to trim mps of faith, now burning dim, that the Cherubs carved in stone, en clouds gave way at dead of night th' ancient church was fill'd with d to sing in heavenly tone, [light,

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Above and round the sacred places
They guard, with wingèd baby-faces.
Thrice happy Creature, in all lands
Nurtured by hospitable hands!
Free entrance to this cot has he,
Entrance and exit both yet free;
And, when the keen unruffled weather,
That thus brings man and bird together,
Shall with its pleasantness be past,
And casement closed and door made fast,
To keep at bay the howling blast,
He needs not fear the season's rage,
For the whole house is Robin's cage.
Whether the bird flit here or there,
O'er table lilt, or perch on chair,
Though some may frown and make a stir,
To scare him as a trespasser,
And he belike will flinch or start,
Good friends he has to take his part;
One chiefly, who with voice and look
Pleads for him from the chimney-nook,
Where sits the Dame, and wears away
Her long and vacant holiday;
With images about her heart,
Reflected from the years gone by,
On human nature's second infancy.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

[1834.

WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY.

DEAR Child of Nature, let them rail!-There is a nest in a green dale,

A harbour and a hold; Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see Thy own heart-stirring days, and be

A light to young and old.

There, healthy as a shepherd boy, And treading among flowers of joy

All our cats having been banished house, it was soon frequented by redasts. My sister, being then confined er room by sickness, as, dear creature, still is, had one that, without being ed, took up its abode with her, and at at used to perch upon a nail from Thou, while thy babes around thee cling, ch a picture had hung. It used to sing Shalt show us how divine a thing fan her face with its wings in a man

that was very touching.-The Author's

es.

Which at no season fade,

A Woman may be made.

The poet tells us that these words Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die, e part of a child's prayer, "still in

eral use through the northern coun- Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh,

." My own childhood was familiar A melancholy slave;

h the same prayer, two lines of it run-But an old age screne and bright, thus:

atthew, Mark, and Luke, and John,

less the bed that I lie on."

And lovely as a Lapland night,

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WORDSWORTH.

HART-LEAP WELL.

Hart-Leap Well is a small spring of water, about five miles from Richmond in Yorkshire, and near the side of the road that leads from Richmond to Askrigg. Its name is derived from a remarkable Chase, the memory of which is preserved by the monuments spoken of in the Second Part of the following Poem, which monuments do now exist as I have there described them.

THE Knight had ridden down from Wensley Moor
With the slow motion of a Summer's cloud,
And now, as he approach'd a vassal's door,
"Bring forth another horse !" he cried aloud.

"Another horse!"-That shout the vassal heard,
And saddled his best Steed, a comely grey;
Sir Walter mounted him; he was the third
Which he had mounted on that glorious day.
Joy sparkled in the prancing courser's eyes;
The horse and horseman are a happy pair;
But, though Sir Walter like a falcon flies,
There is a doleful silence in the air.

A rout this morning left Sir Walter's Hall,
That as they gallop'd made the echoes roar;
But horse and man are vanish'd, one and all;
Such race, I think, was never seen before.

Sir Walter, restless as a veering wind,
Calls to the few tired dogs that yet remain:
Blanch, Swift, and Music, noblest of their kind,
Follow, and up the weary mountain strain.

The Knight halloo'd, he cheer'd and chid them on
With suppliant gestures and upbraidings stern;
But breath and eyesight fail; and, one by one,
The dogs are stretch'd among the mountain fern.
Where is the throng, the tumult of the race?
The bugles that so joyfully were blown?
This chase it looks not like an earthly chase;
Sir Walter and the Hart are left alone.

The poor Hart toils along the mountain-side;
I will not stop to tell how far he fled,
Nor will I mention by what death he died;
But now the Knight beholds him lying dead.
Dismounting then, he lean'd against a thorn;
He had no follower, dog, nor man, nor boy:
He neither crack'd his whip, nor blew his horn,
But gazed upon the spoil with silent joy.

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Close to the thorn on which Sir Walter lean'd,
Stood his dumb partner in this glorious feat;
Weak as a lamb the hour that it is yean'd,
And white with foam as if with cleaving sleet.

Upon his side the Hart was lying stretch'd:
His nostril touch'd a spring beneath a hill,
And with the last deep groan his breath had fetch'd
The waters of the spring were trembling still.

And now, too happy for repose or rest,
(Never had living man such joyful lot!)

Sir Walter walk'd all round, north, south, and west,
And gazed and gazed upon that darling spot.

And, climbing up the hill, (it was at least
Four roods of sheer ascent,) Sir Walter found
Three several hoof-marks which the hunted Beast
Had left imprinted on the grassy ground.

Sir Walter wiped his face, and cried, "Till now
Such sight was never seen by human eyes:
Three leaps have borne him from this lofty brow,
Down to the very fountain where he lies.

I'll build a pleasure-house upon this spot,
And a small arbour, made for rural joy;
"Twill be the traveller's shed, the pilgrim's cot,
A place of love for damsels that are coy.
A cunning artist will I have to frame
A basin for that fountain in the dell!
And they who do make mention of the same,
From this day forth, shall call it HART-LEAP WELL.
And, gallant Stag, to make thy praises known,
Another monument shall here be raised;
Three several pillars, each a rough-hewn stone,
And planted where thy hoofs the turf have grazed.
And, in the summer-time when days are long,
I will come hither with my Paramour;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
We will make merry in that pleasant bower.
Till the foundations of the mountains fail
My mansion with its arbour shall endure; -
The joy of them who till the fields of Swale,

And tham who dwell among the woods of Iral"

Then home he went, and left the Hart, stone-dead, With breathless nostrils stretch'd above the spring. Soon did the Knight perform what he had said; And far and wide the fame thereof did ring.

Ere thrice the Moon into her port had steer'd, cup of stone received the living well;

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Three pillars of rude stone Sir Walter rear'd,
And built a house of pleasure in the dell.

And, near the fountain, flowers of stature tall
With trailing plants and trees were intertwined;
Which soon composed a little sylvan hall,
A leafy shelter from the sun and wind.

And thither, when the summer days were long,
Sir Walter led his wondering Paramour;
And with the dancers and the minstrel's song
Made merriment within that pleasant bower.

The Knight, Sir Walter, died in course of time,
And his bones lie in his paternal vale.—
But there is matter for a second rhyme,
And I to this would add another tale.

PART SECOND.

THE moving accident is not my trade;
To freeze the blood I have no ready arts:
'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade,
To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

As I from Hawes to Richmond did repair,
It chanced that I saw standing in a dell
Three aspens at three corners of a square;
And one, not four yards distant, near a well.

What this imported I could ill divine:
And, pulling now the rein my horse to stop,
I saw three pillars standing in a line, -
The last stone-pillar on a dark hill-top.

The trees were grey, with neither arms nor head;
Half wasted the square mound of tawny green;
So that you just might say, as then I said,
"Here in old time the hand of man hath been."

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