And so may we, with charmèd mind Beholding what your skill has wrought, Another Star-of-Bethlehem find, A new Forget-me-not. From earth to heaven with motion fleet, From heaven to earth, our thoughts will pass, A Holy-Thistle here we meet And there a Shepherd's Weather-glass; And haply some familiar name Shall grace the fairest, sweetest plant, Whose presence cheers the drooping frame Gazing, she feels its power beguile Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath; Alas! that meek, that tender smile Is but a harbinger of death: And pointing with a feeble hand, She says, in faint words by sighs broken, Bear for me to my native land This precious Flower, true love's last token. XX. GLAD sight wherever new with old Is joined, through some dear home-born tie! The life of all that we behold Depends upon that mystery. Vain is the glory of the sky, The beauty vain of field and grove, Unless, while with admiring eye We gaze, we also learn to love. XXI. THE CONTRAST. THE PARROT AND THE WREN. I. WITHIN her gilded cage confined, A Parrot of that famous kind Like beads of glossy jet her eyes; Her plumy mantle's living hues, And, sooth to say, an apter Mate Of feathered thing most delicate But, exiled from Australian bowers, And singleness her lot, She trills her song with tutored powers, Or mocks each casual note. No more of pity for regrets With which she may have striven! Now but in wantonness she frets, Or spite, if cause be given; Arch, volatile, a sportive bird And pleased to be admired! II. THIS moss-lined shed, green, soft, and dry, Not shunning man's abode, though shy, Strange places, coverts unendeared, She never tried; the very nest In which this Child of Spring was reared, Is warmed, thro' Winter, by her feathery breast. To the bleak winds she sometimes gives A slender, unexpected strain; Proof that the hermitess still lives, Though she appear not, and be sought in vain. Say, Dora! tell me, by yon placid moon, Or Nature's DARKLING of this mossy shed? XXII. THE DANISH BOY. A FRAGMENT. I. BETWEEN two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie 1825. And in this smooth and open dell A thing no storm can e'er destroy, II. In clouds above, the lark is heard, But drops not here to earth for rest; Within this lonesome nook the bird Did never build her nest. No beast, no bird, hath here his home; Bees, wafted on the breezy air, Pass high above those fragrant bells Their burdens do they bear; The Danish Boy walks here alone : The lovely dell is all his own. III. A Spirit of noonday is he; Yet seems a form of flesh and blood; A regal vest of fur he wears, In color like a raven's wing: It fears not rain, nor wind, nor dew; |