STRAY PLEASURES. "-Pleasure is spread through the earth By their floating Mill, That lies dead and still, Behold yon Prisoners three, The Miller with two Dames, on the breast of the Thames ! From the shore come the notes To their Mill where it floats, To their House and their Mill tethered fast; To the small wooden Isle where, their work to beguile, They from morning to even take whatever is given ;And many a blithe day they have past. 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, Man and Maidens wheel, They themselves make the Reel, And their Music's a prey which they seize ; 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; The Showers of the Spring Rouse the Birds, and they sing; If the Wind do but stir for his proper delight, TO MY SISTER. WRITTEN AT A SMALL DISTANCE FROM MY HOUSE, AND SENT BY MY LITTLE BOY. It is the first mild day of March: The Redbreast sings from the tall Larch That stands beside our door. There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Edward will come with you ;-and, pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness. No joyless forms shall regulate Our living Calendar : We from to-day, my Friend, will date Love, now an universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth : -It is the hour of feeling. One moment now may give us more Than fifty years of reason: Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season. Some silent laws our hearts will make, Which they shall long obey : We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day. And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above, We'll frame the measure of our souls: Then come, my Sister! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress -And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness. LINES WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING. I HEARD a thousand blended notes, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts To her fair works did Nature link And much it grieved my heart to think Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, And 'tis my faith that every flower The birds around me hopped and played; The budding twigs spread out their fan, And I must think, do all I can, From Heaven if this belief be sent, EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY. "WHY, William, on that old grey stone, Why, William, sit you thus alone, "Where are your books?-that light bequeathed To beings else forlorn and blind! "You look round on your mother Earth, One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, "The eye-it cannot choose but see; "Nor less I deem that there are Powers Which of themselves our minds impress; |