Puslapio vaizdai

Thus spake the moral Muse

Abruptly spreading to depart,
She left that farewell offering,

Memento for some docile heart;

her wing

That may respect the good old Age When Fancy was Truth's willing Page; And Truth would skim the flowery glade, Though entering but as Fancy's Shade.



WITH little here to do or see

Of things that in the great world be,
Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee,
For thou art worthy,

Thou unassuming Common-place
Of Nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a grace,

Which Love makes for thee!

Oft on the dappled turf at ease
I sit, and play with similies,

Loose types of Things through all degrees,


Thoughts of thy raising:

many a fond and idle name

I give to thee, for praise or blame,

As is the humour of the game,
While I am gazing.

A Nun demure, of lowly port;

Or sprightly Maiden, of Love's Court,
In thy simplicity the sport

Of all temptations;

A Queen in crown of rubies drest;
A Starveling in a scanty vest;

Are all, as seems to suit thee best,
Thy appellations.

A little Cyclops, with one eye
Staring to threaten and defy,

That thought comes next—and instantly
The freak is over,

The shape will vanish, and behold
A silver Shield with boss of gold,

That spreads itself, some Faery bold
In fight to cover!

I see thee glittering from afar;
And then thou art a pretty Star;

Not quite so fair as many are

In heaven above thee!

Yet like a star, with glittering crest,

Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;

May peace come never to his nest,

Who shall reprove thee!

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!



BRIGHT flower, whose home is every

A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care,

where !

And oft, 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!

And wherefore? Man is soon deprest;
A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest,
Does little on his memory rest,

Or on his reason;

But Thou would'st teach him how to find

A shelter under every wind,

A hope for times that are unkind

And every season.

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