Rears its gray belfry and its simple vane:
Those lowly roofs of thatch are half concealed
By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring;
When on each bough the rosy tinctured bloom
Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty.
For even those orchards round the Norman farms,
Which as their owners marked the promised fruit,
Console them, for the vineyards of the South
Surpass not these.
Where woods of ash and beech,
And partial copses fringe the green hill foot,
The upland shepherd rears his modest home;
There wanders by a little nameless stream,
That from the hill wells forth, bright now, and clear,
Or after rain with chalky mixture gray,
But still refreshing in its shallow course
The cottage garden; most for use designed,
Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine
Mantles the little casement: yet the brier
Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers;
And pansies rayed and freaked, and mottled pinks,
Grow among balm and rosemary and rue;
There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow
Almost uncultured; some with dark green leaves
ODE TO THE MISSEL THRUSH.
Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white;
Others like velvet robes of regal state
Of richest crimson; while, in thorny moss
Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear
The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek.
With fond regret I recollect e'en now
In spring and summer, what delight I felt
Among these cottage gardens, and how much
Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush
By village housewife or her ruddy maid,
Were welcome to me; soon and simply pleased.
An early worshipper at Nature's shrine,
I loved her rudest scenes-warrens, and heaths,
And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows,
And hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes,
Bowered with wild roses and the clasping woodbine.
ODE TO THE MISSEL THRUSH.
THE winter solstice scarce is past,
Loud is the wind, and hoarsely sound
The mill-streams in the swelling blast,
And cold and humid is the ground:
When to the ivy that embowers
Some pollard tree, or shelt'ring rock, The troop of timid warblers flock, And shudd'ring wait for milder hours.
While thou! the leader of their band,
Fearless salut'st the opening year;
Nor stay'st, till blow the breezes bland,
That bid the tender leaves appear!
But on some tow'ring elm or pine,
Waving elate thy dauntless wing,
Thou joy'st thy love-notes wild to sing, Impatient of St. Valentine!
Oh, herald of the spring! while yet
No harebell scents the woodland lane,
Nor starwort fair, nor violet,
Braves the bleak gust and driving rain:
'Tis thine, as through the copses rude,
Some pensive wanderer sighs along,
To soothe him with thy cheerful song,
And tell of Hope and Fortitude!
For thee, then, may the hawthorn bush,
The alder, and the spindle tree,
With all their various berries blush,
And the blue sloe abound for thee!
For thee the coral holly grow,
Its armed and glossy leaves among,
And many a branchèd oak be hung
With thy pellucid mistletoe.
Still may thy nest, with lichen lined,
Be hidden from the invading jay;
Nor truant boy its covert find,
To bear thy callow young away:
So thou, precursor still of good,
O herald of approaching spring,
Shalt to the pensive wand'rer sing
Thy song of Hope and Fortitude!
THOUGH slow and pensive now the moments roll, Successive months shall from our torpid soul Hurry these scenes again; the laughing hours Advancing swift, shall strew spontaneous flowers;
The early-peeping snowdrop, crocus mild,
And modest violet, grace the secret wild:
Pale primrose, daisy, May-pole decking sweet,
And purple hyacinth together meet:
All Nature's sweets in joyous circles move,
And wake the frozen soul again to love.
The ruddy swain now stalks along the vale,
And snuffs fresh ardor from the flying gale;
The landscape rushes on his untaught mind,
Strong raptures rise, but raptures undefined;
He louder whistles, stretches o'er the green,
By screaming milk-maids not unheeded, seen;
The downcast look ne'er fixes on the swain,
They dread his eye, retire, and gaze again.
FLOWER of the waste! the heath-fowl shuns
For thee the brake and tangled wood-
To thy protecting shade she runs,
Thy tender buds supply her food;
Her young forsake her downy plumes,
To rest upon thy opening blooms.
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