ENEATH these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather,
In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat!
And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together.
One have I marked, the happiest guest In all this covert of the blest :
Hail to Thee, far above the rest In joy of voice and pinion!
Thou, Linnet! in thy green array, Presiding Spirit here to-day, Dost lead the revels of the May: And this is thy dominion.
While birds, and butterflies, and flowers, Make all one band of paramours, Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, Art sole in thy employment:
A Life, a Presence like the Air, Scattering thy gladness without care, Too blest with any one to pair; Thyself thy own enjoyment.
Amid yon tuft of hazel trees, That twinkle to the gusty breeze, Behold him perched in ecstasies,
Yet seeming still to hover;
There! where the flutter of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings, That cover him all over.
My dazzled sight he oft deceives, A Brother of the dancing leaves; Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves Pours forth his song in gushes; As if by that exulting strain
He mocked and treated with disdain The voiceless Form he chose to feign, While fluttering in the bushes.
HERE is a Yew tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst
Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore:
Not loth to furnish weapons for the bands
Of Umfraville or Percy ere they marched
To Scotland's heaths; or those that crossed the sea And drew their sounding bows at Azincour, Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers.
Of vast circumference and gloom profound This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed. But worthier still of note Are those fraternal Four of Borrowdale Joined in one solemn and capacious grove :
Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibres serpentine
Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved; Nor uninformed with Phantasy, and looks That threaten the profane-a pillared shade, Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged Perennially-beneath whose sable roof
Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked With unrejoicing berries-ghostly Shapes May meet at noontide; Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight; Death the Skeleton And Time the Shadow-there to celebrate, As in a natural temple scattered o'er With altars undisturbed of mossy stone, United worship; or in mute repose To lie, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves.
AT THE GRAVE OF BURNS, 1803.
SEVEN YEARS AFTER HIS DEATH.
SHIVER, Spirit fierce and bold, At thought of what I now behold: As vapours breathed from dungeons cold Strike pleasure dead,
So sadness comes from out the mould Where Burns is laid.
And have I then thy bones so near, And thou forbidden to appear?
As if it were thyself that's here
I shrink with pain;
And both my wishes and my fear Alike are vain.
Off weight-nor press on weight-away Dark thoughts!—they came, but not to stay : With chastened feelings would I pay The tribute due
To him, and aught that hides his clay From mortal view.
Fresh as the flower, whose modest worth He sang, his genius "glinted" forth, Rose like a star that, touching earth, For so it seems,
Doth glorify its humble birth With matchless beams.
The piercing eye, the thoughtful brow, The struggling heart, where be they now?- Full soon the Aspirant of the plough, The prompt, the brave,
Slept, with the obscurest, in the low And silent grave.
I mourned with thousands, but as one More deeply grieved, for He was gone Whose light I hailed when first it shone, And showed my youth
How Verse may build a princely throne On humble truth.
Alas! where'er the current tends, Regret pursues and with it blends-
Huge Criffel's hoary top ascends By Skiddaw seen-
Neighbours we were, and loving friends We might have been :
True friends though diversely inclined; But heart with heart and mind with mind, Where the main fibres are entwined, Through Nature's skill,
May even by contraries be joined More closely still.
The tear will start, and let it flow; poor Inhabitant below,"
At this dread moment-even so- Might we together
Have sate and talked where gowans blow, Or on wild heather.
What treasures would have then been placed Within my reach; of knowledge graced By fancy what a rich repast!
Oh! spare to sweep, thou mournful blast, His grave grass-grown.
There, too, a Son, his joy and pride (Not three weeks past the Stripling died), Lies gathered to his Father's side, Soul-moving sight!
Yet one to which is not denied Some sad delight.
For he is safe, a quiet bed
Hath early found among the dead,
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