THE REDBREAST CHASING THE 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, that by some name or other
          All men who know thee call their brother,                   10
          The darling of children and men?
          Could Father Adam 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,                       20
          That, after their bewildering,
          Covered with leaves the little children,
              So painfully in the wood?
          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,                    30
          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 wings in crimson are drest,
          A crimson as bright as thine own:
          Would'st thou be happy in thy nest,
          O pious Bird! whom man loves best,
          Love him, or leave him alone!
                                                              1806.


CONTENTS      BIBLIOGRAPHI

TO A BUTTERFLY

          I've watched you now a full half-hour;
          Self-poised upon that yellow flower
          And, little Butterfly! indeed
          I know not if you sleep or feed.
          How motionless!--not frozen seas
          More motionless! and then
          What joy awaits you, when the breeze
          Hath found you out among the trees,
          And calls you forth again!

          This plot of orchard-ground is ours;                        10
          My trees they are, my Sister's flowers;
          Here rest your wings when they are weary;
          Here lodge as in a sanctuary!
          Come often to us, fear no wrong;
          Sit near us on the bough!
          We'll talk of sunshine and of song,
          And summer days, when we were young;
          Sweet childish days, that were as long
          As twenty days are now.
                                                              1801.

FORESIGHT

          That is work of waste and ruin--
          Do as Charles and I are doing!
          Strawberry-blossoms, one and all,
          We must spare them--here are many:
          Look at it--the flower is small,
          Small and low, though fair as any:
          Do not touch it! summers two
          I am older, Anne, than you.

          Pull the primrose, sister Anne!
          Pull as many as you can.                                    10
          --Here are daisies, take your fill;
          Pansies, and the cuckoo-flower:
          Of the lofty daffodil
          Make your bed, or make your bower;
          Fill your lap, and fill your bosom;
          Only spare the strawberry-blossom!

          Primroses, the Spring may love them--
          Summer knows but little of them:
          Violets, a barren kind,
          Withered on the ground must lie;                            20
          Daisies leave no fruit behind
          When the pretty flowerets die;
          Pluck them, and another year
          As many will be blowing here.

          God has given a kindlier power
          To the favoured strawberry-flower.
          Hither soon as spring is fled
          You and Charles and I will walk;
          Lurking berries, ripe and red,
          Then will hang on every stalk,                              30
          Each within its leafy bower;
          And for that promise spare the flower!
                                                              1802.

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE

          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;                                  10
          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 sage 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,                             20
          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.

          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;                                   30
          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!                            40

          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!                              50
          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!

          Prophet of delight and mirth,
          Ill-requited upon earth;
          Herald of a mighty band,
          Of a joyous train ensuing,                                  60
          Serving at my heart's command,
          Tasks that are no tasks renewing,
          I will sing, as doth behove,
          Hymns in praise of what I love!
                                                              1803.

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,                                 10
          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                           20
          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 sighed to measure
          By myself a lonely pleasure,
          Sighed to think, I read a book
          Only read, perhaps, by me;
          Yet I long could overlook
          Thy bright coronet and Thee,                                30
          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,
          Thou, a flower of wiser wits,
          Slipp'st into thy sheltering hold;
          Liveliest of the vernal train
          When ye all are out again.                                  40

          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
          Prized above all buds and bells
          Opening daily at thy side,
          By the season multiplied?

          Thou art not beyond the moon,
          But a thing "beneath our shoon:"                            50
          Let the bold Discoverer thrid
          In his bark the polar sea;
          Rear who will a pyramid;
          Praise it is enough for me,
          If there be but three or four
          Who will love my little Flower.
                                                              1803.

RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE

                                   I

      There was a roaring in the wind all night;
      The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
      But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
      The birds are singing in the distant woods;
      Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
      The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
      And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.

                                   II

      All things that love the sun are out of doors;
      The sky rejoices in the morning's birth;
      The grass is bright with rain-drops;--on the moors
      The hare is running races in her mirth;
      And with her feet she from the plashy earth
      Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,
      Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.

                                  III

      I was a Traveller then upon the moor,
      I saw the hare that raced about with joy;
      I heard the woods and distant waters roar;
      Or heard them not, as happy as a boy:
      The pleasant season did my heart employ:
      My old remembrances went from me wholly;
      And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.

                                   IV

      But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
      Of joy in minds that can no further go,
      As high as we have mounted in delight
      In our dejection do we sink as low;
      To me that morning did it happen so;
      And fears and fancies thick upon me came;
      Dim sadness--and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name.

                                   V

      I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky;
      And I bethought me of the playful hare:
      Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
      Even as these blissful creatures do I fare;
      Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
      But there may come another day to me--
      Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

                                   VI

      My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
      As if life's business were a summer mood;
      As if all needful things would come unsought
      To genial faith, still rich in genial good;
      But how can He expect that others should
      Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
      Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

                                  VII

      I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
      The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;
      Of Him who walked in glory and in joy
      Following his plough, along the mountain-side:
      By our own spirits are we deified:
      We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;
      But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

                                  VIII

      Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
      A leading from above, a something given,
      Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place,
      When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,
      Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven
      I saw a Man before me unawares:
      The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

                                   IX

      As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie
      Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
      Wonder to all who do the same espy,
      By what means it could thither come, and whence;
      So that it seems a thing endued with sense:
      Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
      Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;

                                   X

      Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead,
      Nor all asleep--in his extreme old age:
      His body was bent double, feet and head
      Coming together in life's pilgrimage;
      As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
      Of sickness felt by him in times long past,
      A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.

                                   XI

      Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face,
      Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood:
      And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,
      Upon the margin of that moorish flood
      Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood,
      That heareth not the loud winds when they call
      And moveth all together, if it move at all.

                                  XII

      At length, himself unsettling, he the pond
      Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look
      Upon the muddy water, which he conned,
      As if he had been reading in a book:
      And now a stranger's privilege I took;
      And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
      "This morning gives us promise of a glorious day."

                                  XIII

      A gentle answer did the old Man make,
      In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:
      And him with further words I thus bespake,
      "What occupation do you there pursue?
      This is a lonesome place for one like you."
      Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise
      Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes,

                                  XIV

      His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
      But each in solemn order followed each,
      With something of a lofty utterance drest--
      Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach
      Of ordinary men; a stately speech;
      Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,
      Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.

                                   XV

      He told, that to these waters he had come
      To gather leeches, being old and poor:
      Employment hazardous and wearisome!
      And he had many hardships to endure:
      From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor;
      Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance,
      And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.

                                  XVI

      The old Man still stood talking by my side;
      But now his voice to me was like a stream
      Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;
      And the whole body of the Man did seem
      Like one whom I had met with in a dream;
      Or like a man from some far region sent,
      To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.

                                  XVII

      My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;
      And hope that is unwilling to be fed;
      Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
      And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
      --Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,
      My question eagerly did I renew,
      "How is it that you live, and what is it you do?"

                                  XVIII

      He with a smile did then his words repeat;
      And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide
      He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
      The waters of the pools where they abide.
      "Once I could meet with them on every side;
      But they have dwindled long by slow decay;
      Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may."

                                  XIX

      While he was talking thus, the lonely place,
      The old Man's shape, and speech--all troubled me:
      In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace
      About the weary moors continually,
      Wandering about alone and silently.
      While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
      He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.

                                   XX

      And soon with this he other matter blended,
      Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
      But stately in the main; and when he ended,
      I could have laughed myself to scorn to find
      In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.
      "God," said I, "be my help and stay secure;
      I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!"
                                                              1807.

"I GRIEVED FOR BUONAPARTE"

      I grieved for Buonaparte, with a vain
      And an unthinking grief! The tenderest mood
      Of that Man's mind--what can it be? what food
      Fed his first hopes? what knowledge could 'he' gain?
      'Tis not in battles that from youth we train
      The Governor who must be wise and good,
      And temper with the sternness of the brain
      Thoughts motherly, and meek as womanhood.
      Wisdom doth live with children round her knees:
      Books, leisure, perfect freedom, and the talk                   10
      Man holds with week-day man in the hourly walk
      Of the mind's business: these are the degrees
      By which true Sway doth mount; this is the stalk
      True Power doth grow on; and her rights are these.
                                                              1801.

A FAREWELL

          FarewellL, thou little Nook of mountain-ground,
          Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair
          Of that magnificent temple which doth bound
          One side of our whole vale with grandeur rare;
          Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,
          The loveliest spot that man hath ever found,
          Farewell!--we leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care,
          Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost surround.

          Our boat is safely anchored by the shore,
          And there will safely ride when we are gone;                10
          The flowering shrubs that deck our humble door
          Will prosper, though untended and alone:
          Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none:
          These narrow bounds contain our private store
          Of things earth makes, and sun doth shine upon;
          Here are they in our sight--we have no more.

          Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!
          For two months now in vain we shall be sought:
          We leave you here in solitude to dwell
          With these our latest gifts of tender thought;              20
          Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat,
          Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell!
          Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought,
          And placed together near our rocky Well.

          We go for One to whom ye will be dear;
          And she will prize this Bower, this Indian shed,
          Our own contrivance, Building without peer!
          --A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred,
          Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered,
          With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer,               30
          Will come to you; to you herself will wed;
          And love the blessed life that we lead here.

          Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed,
          Bringing thee chosen plants and blossoms blown
          Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,
          Which thou hast taken to thee as thy own,
          Making all kindness registered and known;
          Thou for our sakes, though Nature's child indeed,
          Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,
          Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need.               40

          And O most constant, yet most fickle Place,
          Thou hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show
          To them who look not daily on thy face;
          Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know,
          And say'st, when we forsake thee, "Let them go!"
          Thou easy-hearted Thing, with thy wild race
          Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow,
          And travel with the year at a soft pace.

          Help us to tell Her tales of years gone by,
          And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best;           50
          Joy will be flown in its mortality;
          Something must stay to tell us of the rest.
          Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast
          Glittered at evening like a starry sky;
          And in this bush our sparrow built her nest,
          Of which I sang one song that will not die.

          O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep
          Hath been so friendly to industrious hours;
          And to soft slumbers, that did gently steep
          Our spirits, carrying with them dreams of flowers,          60
          And wild notes warbled among leafy bowers;
          Two burning months let summer overleap,
          And, coming back with Her who will be ours,
          Into thy bosom we again shall creep.
                                                              1802.

"THE SUN HAS LONG BEEN SET"

          The sun has long been set,
            The stars are out by twos and threes,
          The little birds are piping yet
            Among the bushes and trees;
          There's a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,
          And a far-off wind that rushes,
          And a sound of water that gushes,
          And the cuckoo's sovereign cry
          Fills all the hollow of the sky.
            Who would "go parading"                                   10
          In London, "and masquerading,"
          On such a night of June
          With that beautiful soft half-moon,
          And all these innocent blisses?
          On such a night as this is!
                                                              1804

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPT. 3, 1802

          Earth has not anything to show more fair:
          Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
          A sight so touching in its majesty:
          This City now doth, like a garment, wear
          The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
          Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
          Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
          All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
          Never did sun more beautifully steep
          In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;              10
          Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
          The river glideth at his own sweet will:
          Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
          And all that mighty heart is lying still!