LONDON, 1802.

MILTON! thou should'st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

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Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart :
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: 10
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

So didst thou travel on life's common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

TO THE DAISY.

WITH little here to do or see

Of things that in the great world be,
Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee,

For thou art worthy,

Thou unassuming Common-place
Of Nature, with that homely face,
And yet with something of a grace,
Which Love makes for thee!

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Oft on the dappled turf at ease

I sit, and play with similes,

Loose types of things through all degrees,

Thoughts of thy raising:

And many a fond and idle name

I give to thee, for praise or blame,

As is the humour of the game,

While I am gazing.

A nun demure, of lowly port;

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court,
In thy simplicity the sport

Of all temptations;

A queen in crown of rubies drest;
A starveling in a scanty vest;

Are all, as seems to suit thee best,
Thy appellations.

A little cyclops, with one eye

Staring to threaten and defy,

That thought comes next—and instantly
The freak is over,

The shape will vanish-and behold

A silver shield with boss of gold,

That spreads itself some faery bold
In fight to cover!

I see thee glittering from afar—

And then thou art a pretty star,

Not quite so fair as many are

In heaven above thee!

Yet like a star, with glittering crest,

Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest;—

May peace come never to his nest

Who shall reprove thee!

Bright Flower! for by that name at last,
When all my reveries are past,

I call thee, and to that cleave fast,

Sweet silent creature!

That breath'st with me in sun and air,

Do thou, as thou art wont, repair

My heart with gladness, and a share

Of thy meek nature!

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THE SMALL CELANDINE.

[A LESSON.]

THERE is a Flower, the lesser Celandine,

That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain;
And, the first moment that the sun may shine,

Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again!

When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, 5

Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest,

Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm,

In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest.

But lately, one rough day, this Flower I passed,

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And recognized it, though an altered form,
Now standing forth an offering to the blast,
And buffeted at will by rain and storm.

I stopped, and said with inly-muttered voice,

"It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold: This neither is its courage nor its choice,

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But its necessity in being old.

The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew;

It cannot help itself in its decay;

Stiff in its members, withered, changed of hue."

And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey.

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To be a Prodigal's Favourite-then, worse truth,

A Miser's Pensioner-behold our lot!

O Man, that from thy fair and shining youth

Age might but take the things Youth needed not!

TO SLEEP.

A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by,
One after one; the sound of rain, and bees
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas,
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky;

I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie
Sleepless! and soon the small birds' melodies
Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees;
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay,
And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:
So do not let me wear to-night away:

Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth?
Come, blessed barrier between day and day,
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health!

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