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When windows flap, and chimney roars, And all is dismal out of doors ; And, sitting by my fire, I see Eight sorry Carts, no less a train! Unworthy Successors of thee, Come straggling through the wind and rain : And oft, as they pass slowly on, Beneath my window – one by one See, perched upon the naked height The summit of a cumbrous freight, A single Traveller — and, there, Another - then perhaps a Pair – The lame, the sickly, and the old ; Men, Women, heartless with the cold ; And Babes in wet and starveling plight; Which once, be weather as it might, Had still a nest within a nest, Thy shelter - and their Mother's breast ! Then most of all, then far the most, Do I regret what we have lost ; Am grieved for that unhappy sin Which robbed us of good Benjamin:And of his stately Charge, which none Could keep alive when He was gone !


Her* divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw
I could some instruction draw,
And raise pleasure to the height
Through the meanest object's sight.
By the murmur of a spring
Or the least bough's rustelling ;
By a Daisy whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed;
Or a shady bush or tree ;
She could more infuse in me

Than all Nature's beauties can
· In some other wiser man.


In youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill, in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,

Most pleased when most uneasy ;

His Muse.

But now my own delights I make, My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly Nature's love partake

Of thee, sweet Daisy !

When soothed a while by milder airs, Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly shades his few grey hairs ;

Spring cannot shun thee; Whole summer fields are thine by right; And Autumn, melancholy Wight ! Doth in thy crimson head delight

: When rains are on thee.

In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the Traveller in the lane ; If welcomed once thou count’st it gain;

Thou art not daunted, Nor car’st if thou be set at naught: And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,

When such are wanted. VOL.

. II

Be Violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose ;
Proyd be the Rose, with rains and dews

Her head impearling ;
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
Yet hast not gone without thy fame;
Thou art indeed by many a claim

The Poet's darling.

If to a rock from rains he fly,
Or, some bright day of April sky,
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie

Near the green holly, i
And wearily at length should fare ;
He needs but look about, and there
Thou art ! - a Friend at hand, to scare

His melancholy.

A hundred times, by rock or bower,
Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,
Have I derived from thy sweet power

Some apprehension ;

Some steady love ; some brief delight;
Some memory that had taken flight;
Some chime of fancy wrong or right ;

Or stray invention

If stately passions in me burn,
And one chance look to Thee should turn,
I drink out of an humbler urn

A lowlier pleasure ;
The homely sympathy that heeds
The common life, our nature breeds ;
A wisdom fitted to the needs

Of hearts at leisure.

When, smitten by the morning ray,
I see thee rise, alert and gay,
Then, cheerful Flower ! my spirits play

With kindred gladness :
And when, at dusk, by dews opprest
Thou sink’st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.

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