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XII.

TO THE SAME FLOWER.

Bright flower, whose home is every where!
A Pilgrim bold in Nature's care,
And all the long year through the heir

Of joy or sorrow,
Methinks that there abides in thee
Some concord with humanity,
Given to no other Flower I see

The forest thorough!

Is it that Man is soon deprest ?
A thoughtless Thing! who, once unblest,
Does little on his memory rest,

Or on his reason,
And Thou would'st teach him how to find
A shelter under every wind,
A hope for times that are unkind

And every season ?

Thou wanderest the wide world about, Unchecked by pride or scrupulous doubt, With friends to greet thee, or without,

Yet pleased and willing;
Meek, yielding to the occasion's call,
And all things suffering from all,
Thy function apostolical

In peace fulfilling.

XIII.

TO A SKY-LARK.

Up with me! up with me into the clouds!

For thy song, Lark, is strong ;
Up with me, up with me into the clouds !

Singing, singing,
With all the heavens about thee ringing,

Lift me, guide me till I find
That spot which seems so to thy mind!

I have walked through wildernesses dreary,

And to-day my heart is weary ;
Had I now the wings of a Faery,

Up to thee would I fly.
There is madness about thee, and joy divine

In that song of thine ;
Up with me, up with me, high and high,
To thy banqueting-place in the sky!

Joyous as Morning,
Thou art laughing and scorning;

Thou hast a nest, for thy love and thy rest :
And, though little troubled with sloth,
Drunken Lark! thou would'st be loth
To be such a Traveller as I.

Happy, happy Liver !
With a soul as strong as a mountain River,
Pouring out praise to the Almighty Giver,

Joy and jollity be with us both !

What though my course be rugged and uneven,
To prickly moors and dusty ways confined,
Yet, hearing thee, or others of thy kind,
As full of gladness and as free of heaven,
I on the earth will go plodding on,
By myself, cheerfully, till the day is donc.

XIV.

TO A SEXTON.

Let thy wheel-barrow alone -
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still -
In thy Bone-house bone on bone ?
'Tis already like a hill
In a field of battle made,
Where three thousand skulls are laid,
- These died in peace each with the other,
Father, Sister, Friend, and Brother.

Mark the spot to which I point !
From this platform, eight feet square,
Take not even a finger-joint :
Andrew's whole fire-side is there.
Here, alone, before thine eyes,
Simon's sickly Daughter lies,
From weakness, now, and pain defended,
Whom he twenty winters tended.

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