And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings!

He, too, is no mean preacher :

Come forth into the light of things,

Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,

Our minds and hearts to blessSpontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,

Of moral evil and of good,

Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;

Our meddling intellect

Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:

-We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;

Close up these barren leaves :

Come forth, and bring with you a heart

That watches and receives.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO HAD BEEN REPROACHED FOR TAKING LONG WALKS IN THE COUNTRY,

DEAR Child of Nature, let them rail !
-There is a nest in a green dale,

A harbour and a hold;

Where thou, a Wife and Friend, shalt see
Thy own delightful days, and be

A light to young and old.

There, healthy as a Shepherd-boy,

And treading among flowers of joy

Which at no season fade,

Thou, while thy Babes around thee cling,

Shalt show us how divine a thing

A Woman may be made.

Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
Nor leave thee, when grey hairs are nigh,

A melancholy slave;

But an old age serene and bright,

And lovely as a Lapland night,

Shall lead thee to thy grave.

TO HARTLEY COLERIDGE,

SIX YEARS OLD.

O THOU ! whose fancies from afar are brought;
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,
And fittest to unutterable thought

The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol;
Thou faery Voyager! that dost float

In such clear water, that thy boat

May rather seem

To brood on air than on an earthly stream;

Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,

Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;

O blessed Vision! happy Child!

That art so exquisitely wild,

I think of thee with many fears

For what may be thy lot in future years.

I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,

Lord of thy house and hospitality;

And Grief, uneasy Lover! never rest

But when she sate within the touch of thee.

O too industrious folly !

O vain and causeless melancholy!

Nature will either end thee quite ;

Or, lengthening out thy season of delight,

Preserve for thee, by individual right,

A young Lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. What hast Thou to do with sorrow,

Or the injuries of to-morrow?

Thou art a Dew-drop, which the morn brings forth,

Ill fitted to sustain unkindly shocks;

Or to be trailed along the soiling earth;

A

gem that glitters while it lives,

And no forewarning gives;

But, at the touch of wrong, without a strife

Slips in a moment out of life.

"O NIGHTINGALE, THOU SURELY ART."

O NIGHTINGALE! thou surely art

A Creature of a fiery heart ;

These notes of thine-they pierce and pierce;
Tumultuous harmony and fierce!

Thou sing'st as if the God of wine
Had helped thee to a Valentine;
A song in mockery and despite
Of shades, and dews, and silent night;
And steady bliss, and all the loves
Now sleeping in these peaceful groves.

I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
His homely tale, this very day;
His voice was buried among trees,
Yet to be come at by the breeze :

He did not cease; but cooed-and cooed ;
And somewhat pensively he wooed :
He sang of love, with quiet blending,
Slow to begin, and never ending;
Of serious faith, and inward glee;
That was the Song-the Song for me!

STRANGE fits of passion have I known :

And I will dare to tell,

But in the Lover's ear alone,

What once to me befel.

When she I loved was strong and gay,

And like a rose in June,

I to her cottage bent my way,
Beneath the evening Moon.

Upon the Moon I fixed my eye,

All over the wide lea;

My Horse trudged on-and we drew nigh

Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard plot ;

And, as we climbed the hill,

Towards the roof of Lucy's cot

The Moon descended still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon!

And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending Moon.

My Horse moved on; hoof after hoof
He raised, and never stopped :
When down behind the cottage roof,

At once, the bright Moon dropped.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide

Into a Lover's head!

"O mercy!" to myself I cried,

"If Lucy should be dead !"