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.

Clouds that love through air to hasten,
Ere the storm its fury stills,
Helmet-like themselves will fasten
On the heads of towering hills.
What, if through the frozen centre
Of the Alps the Chamois bound,
Yet he has a home to enter
In some nook of chosen ground:
And the Sea-horse, though the ocean
Yield him no domestic cave,
Slumbers without sense of motion,
Couched upon the rocking wave.
If on windy days the Raven
Gambol like a dancing skiff,
Not the less she loves her haven
In the bosom of the cliff.
The fleet Ostrich, till day closes,
Vagrant over desert sands,
Brooding on her eggs reposes
When chill night that care demands.
Day and night my toils redouble,
Never nearer to the goal;

Night and day, I feel the trouble
Of the Wanderer in my soul.
1800.

In sight of the spires,

All alive with the fires

Of the sun going down to his rest,

In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,
They dance, there are three, as jocund as free,
While they dance on the calm river's breast.
Man and Maidens wheel,

They themselves make the reel,
And their music's a prey which they seize;
It plays not for them,-what matter? 'tis theirs;
And if they had care, it has scattered their cares,
While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!'
They dance not for me,

Yet mine is their glee!

Thus pleasure is spread through the earth
In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall

find:

Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.

The showers of the spring Rouse the birds, and they sing : If the wind do but stir for his proper delight, Each leaf, that and this, his neighbour will kiss: Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother;

They are happy, for that is their right! 1806.

XXV.

THE PILGRIM'S DREAM;

OR, THE STAR AND THE GLOW-WORM.
A PILGRIM, when the summer day
Had closed upon his weary way,
A lodging begged beneath a castle's roof;
But him the haughty Warder spurned;
And from the gate the Pilgrim turned,
To seek such covert as the field

Or heath-besprinkled copse might yield,
Or lofty wood, shower-proof.

He paced along; and, pensively,
Halting beneath a shady tree,

Whose moss-grown root might serve for couch

or seat,

The murmur of a neighbouring stream,
Induced a soft and slumbrous dream,
Apregnant dream, within whose shadowy bounds
He recognised the earth-born Star,
And That which glittered from afar;
And (strange to witness!) from the frame
Of the ethereal Orb, there came
Intelligible sounds.

Much did it taunt the humble Light
That now, when day was fled, and night
Hushed the dark earth, fast closing weary eyes,
A very reptile could presume

To show her taper in the gloom,
As if in rivalship with One
Who sate a ruler on his throne
Erected in the skies.

"Exalted Star!" the Worm replied,

Abate this unbecoming pride,

Or with a less uneasy lustre shine; Thou shrink'st as momently thy rays

Are mastered by the breathing haze;
While neither mist, nor thickest cloud
That shapes in heaven its murky shroud,
Hath power to injure mine.

But not for this do I aspire
To match the spark of local fire,

That at my will burns on the dewy lawn,
With thy acknowledged glories:-No!
Yet, thus upbraided, I may show
What favours do attend me here,
Till, like thyself, I disappear
Before the purple dawn."

When this in modest guise was said,
Across the welkin seemed to spread

A boding sound-for aught but sleep unfit!
Hills quaked, the rivers backward ran;
That Star, so proud of late, looked wan;
And reeled with visionary stir

In the blue depth, like Lucifer

Cast headlong to the pit!

Fire raged: and, when the spangled floor

Of ancient ether was no more,

New heavens succeeded, by the dream brought

forth:

And all the happy Souls that rode
Transfigured through that fresh abode
Had heretofore, in humble trust,
Shone meekly mid their native dust,
The Glow-worms of the earth!

This knowledge, from an Angel's voice
Proceeding, made the heart rejoice
Of Him who slept upon the open lea:
Waking at morn he murmured not;
And, till life's journey closed, the spot
Was to the Pilgrim's soul endeared,
Where by that dream he had been cheered
Beneath the shady tree.
1818.

XXVI. THE

POET AND THE CAGED TURTLEDOVE.

1830.

As often as I murmur here
My half-formed melodies,

Straight from her osier mansion near,
The Turtledove replies:
Though silent as a leaf before,
The captive promptly coos:
Is it to teach her own soft lore,
Or second my weak Muse?
I rather think, the gentle Dove
Is murmuring a reproof,
Displeased that I from lays of love
Have dared to keep aloof;
That I, a Bard of hill and dale,
Have caroll'd, fancy free,
As if nor dove nor nightingale,
Had heart or voice for me.
If such thy meaning, O forbear,

Sweet Bird! to do me wrong; Love, blessed Love, is every where The spirit of my song:

'Mid grove, and by the calm fireside,
Love animates my lyre-
That coo again !-'tis not to chide,
I feel, but to inspire.

XXVII.

A WREN'S NEST.

AMONG the dwellings framed by birds
In field or forest with nice care,

Is none that with the little Wren's
In snugness may compare.
No door the tenement requires,
And seldom needs a laboured roof;
Yet is it to the fiercest sun

Impervious, and storm-proof.

So warm, so beautiful withal,
In perfect fitness for its aim,
That to the Kind by special grace
Their instinct surely came.

And when for their abodes they seek
An opportune recess,

The hermit has no finer eye

For shadowy quietness.

These find, 'mid ivied abbey-walls,
A canopy in some still nook;
Others are pent-housed by a brae
That overhangs a brook.

There to the brooding bird her mate
Warbles by fits his low clear song;
And by the busy streamlet both

Are sung to all day long.

Or in sequestered lanes they build,
Where, till the flitting bird's return,
Her eggs within the nest repose,
Like relics in an urn.

But still, where general choice is good,
There is a better and a best ;
And, among fairest objects, some
Are fairer than the rest;

This, one of those small builders proved
In a green covert, where, from out
The forehead of a pollard oak,

The leafy antlers sprout;

For She who planned the mossy lodge,
Mistrusting her evasive skill,

Had to a Primrose looked for aid
Her wishes to fulfil.

High on the trunk's projecting brow

And fixed an infant's span above

The budding flowers, peeped forth the

nest,

The prettiest of the grove!

The treasure proudly did I show

To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things; but once Looked up for it in vain :

"Tis gone a ruthless spoiler's prey, Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 'Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved Indignant at the wrong.

Just three days after, passing by

In clearer light the moss-built cell
I saw, espied its shaded mouth;
And felt that all was well.
The Primrose for a veil had spread
The largest of her upright leaves;
And thus, for purposes benign,
A simple flower deceives.

Concealed from friends who might disturb
Thy quiet with no ill intent,

Secure from evil eyes and hands

On barbarous plunder bent,

power)

Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent
Earthward in uncomplaining languishment,
The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower!
(Tis Fancy guides me willing to be led,
Though by a slender thread,)

So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew
Of his death-wound, when he from innocent air
The gentlest breath of resignation drew;
While Venus in a passion of despair
Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair
Spangled with drops of that celestial shower.
She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do;
But pangs more lasting far that Lover knew
Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some lone
bower

Did press this semblance of unpitied smart
Into the service of his constant heart,

His own dejection, downcast Flower! could

share

With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear.

XXIX.

COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING. NEVER enlivened with the liveliest ray That fosters growth or checks or cheers decay, Nor by the heaviest rain-drops more deprest, This Flower, that first appeared as summer's

guest,

Preserves her beauty mid autumnal leaves
And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves.
When files of stateliest plants have ceased to
bloom,

One after one submitting to their doom,
When her coevals each and all are fled,
What keeps her thus reclined upon her lone-
some bed?

The old mythologists, more impress'd than we
Of this late day by character in tree
Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy,
Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear,
Or with the language of the viewless air
By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause
To solve the mystery, not in Nature's laws
But in Man's fortunes. Hence a thousand tales

Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales.
Nor doubt that something of their spirit swayed
The fancy-stricken Youth or heart-sick Maid,
Who, while each stood companionless and eyed
This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed,
Thought of a wound which death is slow to cure,
A fate that has endured and will endure,
And, patience coveting yet passion feeding.
Called the dejected Lingerer, Love lies bleeding.

XXX.

RURAL ILLUSIONS.

SYLPH was it? or a Bird more bright

Than those of fabulous stock?

A second darted by:-and lo!
Another of the flock,

Through sunshine flitting from the bough
To nestle in the rock.

Transient deception! a gay freak

Of April's mimicries!

Those brilliant strangers, hailed with joy Among the budding trees,

Proved last year's leaves, pushed from the

spray

To frolic on the breeze.

Maternal Flora! show thy face,

And let thy hand be seen,

Thy hand here sprinkling tiny flowers,
That, as they touch the green,
Take root (so seems it) and look up
In honour of their Queen.
Yet, sooth, those little starry specks,
That not in vain aspired

To be confounded with live growths,
Most dainty, most admired,
Were only blossoms dropped from twigs
Of their own offspring tired.

Not such the World's illusive shows;
Her wingless flutterings,

Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave
The floweret as it springs,

For the undeceived, smile as they may,
Are melancholy things:

But gentle Nature plays her part
With ever-varying wiles,

And transient feignings with plain truth
So well she reconciles,

That those fond Idlers most are pleased
Whom oftenest she beguiles.

1832.

XXXI.

THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES.

THAT way look, my Infant, lo!
What a pretty baby-show!
See the Kitten on the wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall,

Withered leaves-one-two-and three-
From the lofty elder-tree!

Through the calm and frosty air

Of this morning bright and fair,

Eddying round and round they sink
Softly, slowly one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or Faery hither tending,-
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,

In his wavering parachute.

-But the Kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!
First at one, and then its fellow
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now-now one--
Now they stop and there are none:
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-leap half way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again :
Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian conjurer:
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics played in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd?
Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure!

'Tis a pretty baby-treat;
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet:
Here, for neither Babe nor me,
Other play-mate can I see.
Of the countless living things,
That with stir of feet and wings
(In the sun or under shade,
Upon bough or grassy blade)
And with busy revellings,
Chirp and song, and murmurings,
Made this orchard's narrow space,
And this vale so blithe a place,
Multitudes are swept away
Never more to breathe the day:
Some are sleeping; some in bands
Travelled into distant lands;
Others slunk to moor and wood,
Far from human neighbourhood;
And, among the Kinds that keep
With us closer fellowship,
With us openly abide,

All have laid their mirth aside.

Where is he that giddy Sprite,
Blue-cap, with his colours bright,
Who was blest as bird could be,
Feeding in the apple-tree:

Made such wanton spoil and rout,
Turning blossoms inside out;

And the air is calm in rain;
Vainly Morning spreads the lure
Of a sky serene and pure;
Creature none can she decoy
Into open sign of joy:
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near?
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter even than gaiety?

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell
In the impenetrable cell

Of the silent heart which Nature
Furnishes to every creature;
Whatsoe'er we feel and know
Too sedate for outward show,
Such a light of gladness breaks,
Pretty Kitten! from thy freaks,-
Spreads with such a living grace
O'er my little Laura's face;
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms,
That almost I could repine
That your transports are not mine,
That I do not wholly fare
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair!
And I will have my careless season
Spite of melancholy reason,
Will walk through life in such a way
That, when time brings on decay,
Now and then I may possess
Hours of perfect gladsomeness.
-Pleased by any random toy;
By a kitten's busy joy,
Or an infant's laughing eye
Sharing in the ecstasy;

I would fare like that or this,
Find my wisdom in my bliss ;
Keep the sprightly soul awake,
And have faculties to take,

Even from things by sorrow wrought,
Matter for a jocund thought,

Spite of care, and spite of grief, To gambol with Life's falling Leaf. 1804.

XXXII

ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER

DORA,

ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD THAT DAY, SEPTEMBER 16.

Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin!

Prettiest Tumbler ever seen!

Light of heart and light of limb;

What is now become of Him?

Lambs, that through the mountains went
Frisking, bleating merriment,

When the year was in its prime,
They are sobered by this time.
If you look to vale or hill,
If you listen, all is still,

Save a little neighbouring rill,
That from out the rocky ground
Strikes a solitary sound.
Vainly glitter hill and plain,

HAST thou then survived-Offspring of infirm humanity, Meek Infant! among all forlornest things The most forlorn-one life of that bright star, The second glory of the Heavens?-Thou hast Already hast survived that great decay, That transformation through the wide earth felt, And by all nations. In that Being's sight From whom the Race of human kind proceed, A thousand years are but as yesterday; And one day's narrow circuit is to Him Not less capacious than a thousand years. But what is time? What outward glory? neither A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend Through "heaven's eternal year."-Yet hail to

Thee,

Frail, feeble, Monthling!-by that name, methinks,