And all day long I number yet,
All seasons through, another debt,
Which I, wherever thou art met,
To thee am owing:

An instinct call it, a blind sense;
A happy, genial influence,

Coming one knows not how nor whence,
Nor whither going:

Child of the year! that round dost run
Thy pleasant course, when day's begun,
As ready to salute the sun

As lark or leveret,

Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;
Nor be less dear to future men,

Than in old time:-thou not in vain
Art nature's favourite.*

SO FAIR, SO SWEET.

So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive,

1802.

Would that the little flowers were born to live
Conscious of half the pleasure that they give;
That to this mountain daisy's self were known
The beauty of its star-shaped shadow thrown
On the smooth surface of this naked stone!

And what if hence a bold desire should mount
High as the Sun, that he could take account
Of all that issues from his glorious fount !

So might he ken how by his sovereign aid
These delicate companionships are made;
And how he rules the pomp of light and shade;

And where the Sister-power that shines by night
So privileged, what a countenance of delight
Would through the clouds break forth on human sight!

Fond fancies! wheresoe'er shall turn thine eye

On earth, air, ocean or the starry sky,

Converse with Nature in pure sympathy;

All vain desires, all lawless wishes quelled,
Be Thou to love and praise alike impelled,
Whatever boon is granted or withheld.

1845.

* See in Chaucer and the elder poets the honours formerly paid to this flower.

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;

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,
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 its 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!

* Common pilewort.

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!

Prophet of delight and mirth,

Ill-requited upon earth;

Herald of a mighty band,

Of a joyous train ensuing,
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!

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.

Soon as gentle breezes bring
News of winter's vanishing,
And the children build their bowers,
Sticking kerchief-pots 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.

1802.

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,
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.

DAFFODILS.

I WANDERED lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee.

A poet could not but be gay

In such a jocund company;

I gazed-and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;

1802.

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

1804.

SOME BALLADS, NARRATIVES, AND

PASTORALS.

1.

SONG AT THE FEAST OF BROUGHAM CASTLE.

Upon the Restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd, to the Estates and Honours of his Ancestors.

HIGH in the breathless hall the minstrel sate,
And Emont's murmur mingled with the song.—
The words of ancient time I thus translate,

A festal strain that hath been silent long :

"From town to town, from tower to tower,
The red rose is a gladsome flower.
Her thirty years of winter past,
The red rose is revived at last;

She lifts her head for endless spring,
For everlasting blossoming:

Both roses flourish, red and white :
In love and sisterly delight

The two that were at strife are blended,
And all old troubles now are ended.-
Joy! joy to both! but most to her
Who is the flower of Lancaster!
Behold her how she smiles to-day
On this great throng, this bright array!
Fair greeting doth she send to all
From every corner of the hall;
But chiefly from above the board
Where sits in state our rightful lord,
A Clifford to his own restored!

'They came with banner, spear, and shield,

And it was proved in Bosworth field.

Not long the avenger was withstood-
Earth helped him with the cry of blood:
St. George was for us, and the might
Of blessed Angels crowned the right.
Loud voice the land hath uttered forth,
We loudest in the faithful North:
Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring,
Our streams proclaim a welcoming;