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TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.

WORDSWORTH.

PANSIES, lilies, kingcups, daisies,
Let them live upon their praises;
Long as there's a sun that sets,
Primroses will have their glory;
Long as there are violets,
They will have a place in story:
There's a flower that shall be mine,
'Tis the little Celandine.

Eyes of some men travel far
For the finding of a star ;
Up and down the heavens they go,
Men that keep a mighty rout!
I'm as great as they, I trow,
Since the day I found thee out,
Little flower ! I'll make a stir
Like a great astronomer.

Modest, yet withal an elf
Bold, and lavish of thyself;
Since we needs must first have met
I have seen thee, high and low,
Thirty years or more, and yet
'Twas a face I did not know;
Thou hast now, go where I may,
Fifty greetings in a day.

Ere a leaf is on a bush,
In the time before the thrush
Has a thought about its nest,
Thou wilt come with half a call,
Spreading out thy glossy breast
Like a careless prodigal;
Telling tales about the sun,
When we've little warmth, or none.

Poets, vain men in their mood !
Travel with the multitude :
Never heed them ; I aver
That they all are wanton wooers ;
But the thrifty cottager,
Who stirs little out of doors,
Joys to spy thee near her home ;
Spring is coming, thou art come!

Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unassuming spirit !
Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou dost show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane-there's not a place,
Howsoever mean it be,
But 'tis good enough for thee.

Ill befall the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours !
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will see or no;

Others, too, of lofty mien ;
They have done as worldlings do,
Taken praise that should be thine,
Little, humble Celandine!

Prophet of delight and mirth,
Scorn'd and slighted upon earth!
Herald of a mighty band,
Of a joyous train ensuing,
Singing at my heart's command,
In the lanes my thoughts pursuing,
I will sing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love !

TO MY DAUGHTER,
On the Morning of her Birth.

BYRON.
Hail to this teeming stage of strife!
Hail, lovely miniature of life!
Pilgrim of many cares untold !
Lamb of the world's extended fold !
Fountain of hopes and doubts and fears,
Sweet promise of extatic years!
How could I fainly bend the knee,
And turn idolater to thee!

'Tis nature's worship-felt-confess'd,
Far as the life which warms the breast,
The sturdy savage, 'midst his clan,
The rudest portraiture of man,

In trackless woods and boundless plains,
Where everlasting wildness reigns,
Owns the still throb the secret start
The hidden impulse of the heart.

Dear babe ! ere yet upon thy years
The soil of human vice appears,
Ere passion hath disturb'd thy cheek,
And prompted what thou dar'st not speak ;
Ere that pale lip is blanch'd with care,
Or from those eyes shoot fierce despair,
Would I could wake thy untun'd ear,
And gust it with a father's prayer.

But little reck'st thou, oh, my childi
Of travails on life's thorny wild 1
Of all the dangers, all the woes,
Each tottering footstep which enclose ;
Ah, little reck'st thou of the scene
So darkly wrought, that spreads between
The little all we here can find,
And the dark mystic sphere behind 1

Little reck'st thou, my earliest born,
Of clouds which gather round thy mora,
Of arts to lure thy soul astray,
Of snares that intersect thy way,
Of secret foes, of friends untrue,
Of fiends who stab the hearts they woo
Little thou reck'st of this sad store-
Would thou might'st never reck them more!
But thou wilt burst this transient sleep,
And thou wilt wake, my babe, to weep;
The tenant of a frail abode,
Thy tears must flow, as mine have flow'd !
Beguiled by follies every day,
Sorrow must wash the faults away,
And thou may'st wake, perchance to prove
The pang of unrequited love.

Unconscious babe, tho' on that brow
No half-fledged misery nestles now,
Scarce round thy placid lips a smile
Maternal fondness shall beguile,
Ere the moist footsteps of a tear
Shall plant their dewy traces there,
And prematurely pave the way
For sorrows of a riper day!

Oh! could a father's prayer repel
The eyes' sad grief, the bosom's swell ;
Or could a father hope to bear
A darling child's allotted care,
Then thou, my babe, should'st slumber still,
Exempted from all human ill,
A parent's love thy peace should free,
And ask its wounds again for thee.

Sleep on my child : the slumber brief,
Too soon shall melt away to grief,
Too soon the dawn of woe shall break,
And briny rills bedew that cheek :

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