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!
THE KITTEN, AND THE FALLING LEAVES.
THAT way look, my infant, lo!
What a a pretty baby-show!
See the kittten 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 fairy hither tending,-.
To his lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,
In this 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 conjuror ;
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 playmate 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;
Hung with head towards the ground,
Fluttered, perched, into a round
Bound himself, and then unbound;
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,
And the air is calm in vain ;
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 e'en 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.
BETWEEN two sister moorland rills
There is a spot that seems to lie
Sacred to flow'rets of the hills,
And sacred to the sky.
And in this smooth and open dell
There is a tempest-stricken tree;
A corner-stone by lightning cut,
The last stone of a cottage hut ;
And in this dell you see
A thing no storm can e'er destroy,
The shadow of a Danish boy.
In clouds above the lark is heard,-
He sings his blithest and his best;
But in this lonesome nook the bird
Did never build her nest.
No beast, no bird hath here his home:
The bees, borne on the breezy air,
Pass high above those fragrant bells
To other flowers, to other dells,
Nor ever linger there.
The Danish boy walks here alone.
The lovely dell is all his own.
A spirit of noonday is he,
He seems a form of flesh and blood;
Nor piping shepherd shall he be,
Nor herd-boy of the wood.
A regal vest of fur he wears,
In colour like a raven's wing;
It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew;
But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue
As budding pines in spring;
His helmet has a vernal grace,
Fresh as the bloom upon his face.
A harp is from his shoulder slung;
He rests the harp upon his knee;
And there, in a forgotten tongue,
He warbles melody.
Of flocks upon the neighbouring hills
He is the darling and the joy;
And often, when no cause appears,
The mountain ponies prick their ears,
-They hear the Danish boy,
While in the dell he sits alone
Beside the tree and corner-stone.
There sits he: in his face you spy
No trace of a ferocious air,
Nor ever was a cloudless sky
So steady or so fair.
The lovely Danish boy is blest
And happy in his flowery cove:
From bloody deeds his thoughts are far;
And yet he warbles songs of war
That seem like songs of love,
For calm and gentle is his mean;
Like a dead boy, he is serene.
ADDRESS TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER,
ON BEING REMINDED THAT SHE WAS A MONTH OLD ON THAT DAY.
-HAST thou then survived,
Mild 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?
A measure is of Thee, whose claims extend
Through "heaven's eternal year."-Yet hail to thee,
Frail, feeble monthling?-by that name, methinks,
Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out
Not idly. Hadst thou been of Indian birth,
Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves,
And rudely canopied by leafy boughs,
Or to the churlish elements exposed
On the blank plains,-the coldness of the night,
Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face
Of beauty, by the changing moon adorned,
Would, with imperious admonition, then
Have scored thine age, and punctually timed
Thine infant history, on the minds of those
Who might have wandered with thee. Mother's love,
Nor less than mother's love in other breasts,
Will, among us warm clad and warmly housed,
Do for thee what the finger of the heavens
Doth all too often harshly execute
For thy unblest coevals, amid wilds
Where fancy hath small liberty to grace
Th' affections, to exalt them or refine;
And the maternal sympathy itself,
Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie
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