Sweet flower! for by that name at last,
When all my reveries are past,

I call thee, and to that cleave fast,-
Sweet silent creature!

That breath'st with me in sun and air,
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair
My heart with gladness, and a share
Of thy meek nature!

XL

TO THE SAME FLOWER.

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

And all 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!

Is it that man is soon depressed?
A thoughtless thing! who, once unblest,
Does little on his memory rest,

Or on his reason,

And thou wouldst teach him how to find
A shelter under every wind,

A hope for times that are unkind,

And every season?

Thou wanderest the wide world about,
Unchecked by pride or scrupulous doubt,
With friends to greet thee, or without,
Yet pleased and willing;

Meek, yielding to th' occasion's call,
And all things suffering from all,
Thy function apostolical

In peace fulfilling.

XIL.

TO A SKY-LARK.

Up with me! up with me, into the clouds ! For thy song, Lark, is strong;

Up with me! up with me into the clouds!
Singing, singing,

With all the heavens about thee ringing.
Lift me, guide me till I find

That spot which seems so to thy mind!

I have walked through wildernesses dreary,
And to-day my heart is weary;

Had I now the wings of a fairy,
Up to thee would I fly.

There is madness about thee, and joy divine
In that song of thine;

Up with me, up with me, high and high,
To thy banqueting-place in the sky!

Joyous as morning,

Thou art laughing and scorning;

Thou hast a nest, for thy love and thy rest:
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark! thou wouldst be loath
To be such a traveller as I.
Happy, happy liver!

With a soul as strong as a mountain river,
Pouring out praise to th' Almighty Giver,
Joy and jollity be with us both!

Hearing thee, or else some other,
As merry a brother,

I on the earth will go plodding on,
By myself, cheerfully, till the day is done.

XIII.

TO A SEXTON.

LET thy wheelbarrow alone--
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still
In thy bonehouse, bone on bone?
'Tis already like a hill

In a field of battle made,

Where three thousand skulls are laid.

-These died in peace each with the other,

Father, sister, friend, and brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!

From this platform, eight feet square,

Take not even a finger-joint;

Andrew's whole fireside is there.

Here, alone, before thine eyes,

Simon's sickly daughter lies,

From weakness, now, and pain defended,

Whom he twenty winters tended.

Look but at the gardener's pride-
How he glories, when he sees
Roses, lilies, side by side,
Violets in families!

By the heart of man, his tears.
By his hopes and by his fears,

Thou, old grey-beard! art the warden
Of a far superior garden.

Thus, then, each to other dear,
Let them all in quiet lie,
Andrew there, and Susan here,
Neighbours in mortality.

And, should I live through sun and rain
Seven widowed years without my Jane,
O Sexton, do not then remove her,-
Let one grave hold the loved and lover!

XIV.

WHO fancied what a pretty sight
This rock would be if edged around
With living snowdrops-circlet bright?
How glorious to this orchard ground!
Who loved the little rock and set
Upon its head this coronet?

Was it the humour of a child!

Or rather of some love-sick maid,

Whose brows, the day that she was styled

The shepherd queen, were thus arrayed!
Of man mature, or matron sage?
Or old man toying with his age?

I asked 'twas whispered, the device
To each or all might well belong :
It is the spirit of paradise

That prompts such work, a spirit strong,

That gives to all the self-same bent

Where life is wise and innocent.

XV.

SONG

FOR THE WANDERING JEW.

THOUGH the torrents from their fountains
Roar down many a craggy steep,
Yet they find among the mountains
Resting-places, calm and deep.

Though, as if with eagle pinion,
O'er the rocks the chamois roam,
Yet he has some small dominion
Where he feels himself at home.

If on windy days the raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,

Not the less he loves his haven
In the bosom of the cliff.

Though the sea-horse in the ocean
Own no dear domestic cave,
Yet he slumbers without motion
On the calm and silent wave.

Day and night my toils redouble!
Never nearer to the goal;
Never-never does the trouble
Of the wanderer leave my soul.

XVI.

THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUde of BINNORIE.

SEVEN daughters had Lord Archibald,

All children of one mother;

I could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A garland of seven lilies wrought!
Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold knight as ever fought,
Their father, took of them no thought,
He loved the wars so well.

Sing mournfully, oh ! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie!

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,
And from the shores of Erin,

Across the wave, a rover brave

To Binnorie is steering:

Right onward to the Scottish strand

The gallant ship is borne ;

The warriors leap upon the land,

And hark! the leader of the band

Hath blown his bugle-horn.

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

Beside a grotto of their own,

With boughs above them closing,
The seven are laid, and in the shade
They lie like fawns reposing.

At noise of man and steed,

But now, upstarting with affright
Away they fly to left, to right-

Of
your fair household, father knight,
Methinks you take small heed!
Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

Away the seven fair Campbells fly,
And, over hill and hollow,

With menace proud, and insult loud,
The youthful rovers follow.

Cried they, "Your father loves to roam :
Enough for him to find

The empty house when he comes home;
For us your yellow ringlets comb,
For us be fair and kind!"

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

Some close behind, some side by side,
Like clouds in stormy weather,
They run and cry, "Nay let us die,
And let us die together.

A lake was near; the shore was steep;
There never foot had been;

They ran, and with a desperate leap
Together plunged into the deep,
Nor ever more were seen.

Sing mournfully, oh ! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

The stream that flows out of the lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The fishers say, those sisters fair
By fairies are all buried there,
And there together sleep.

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The Solitude of Binnorie.

XVII.

"-Pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts, to be claimed by whoever shall find."

By their floating mill,

Which lies dead and still,

Behold yon prisoners three !

The miller with two dames, on the breast of the Thames; The platform is small, but there's room for them all; And they're dancing merrily.

From the shore come the notes

To their mill where it floats,

To their house and their mill tethered fast;

To the small wooden isle where, their work to beguile, They from morning to even take whatever is given; And many a blithe day they have passed.