And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. x x x , , - , , , , , ! - ! ? ; , . x x x Among all lovely things my Love had been; Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew About her home; but she had never seen A glow-worm, never one, and this I knew. While riding near her home one stormy night A single glow-worm did I chance to espy; I gave a fervent welcome to the sight, And from my horse I leapt; great joy had I. Upon a leaf the glow-worm did I lay, To bear it with me through the stormy night: And, as before, it shone without dismay; Albeit putting forth a fainter light. When to the dwelling of my Love I came, I went into the orchard quietly; And left the glow-worm, blessing it by name, Laid safely by itself, beneath a tree. The whole next day, I hoped, and hoped with fear, At night the glow-worm shone beneath the tree; I led my Lucy to the spot, "Look here," Oh! joy it was for her, and joy for me! x x x , , , , . , , . , , . , ! , ! , . , . , - . , , , , . , , . . "!" - , ! WRITTEN IN MARCH The Cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The ploughboy is whooping - anon - anon: There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone!   , , , , . , . , . , , , . . , , . TO A BUTTERFLY I've watched you now a full half-hour, Self-poised upon that yellow flower; And, little Butterfly! indeed I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless! - not- frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among the trees, And calls you forth again! This plot of orchard-ground is ours; My trees they are, my Sister's flowers; Here rest your wings when they are weary; Here lodge as in a sanctuary! Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! We'll talk of sunshine and of song, And summer days, when we were young; Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now. x x x , , -, , . . , ? ! . . ! , . , , - , . THE GREEN LINNET Beneath these fruit-tree boughs that shed Their snow-white blossoms on my head, With brightest sunshine round me spread Of spring's unclouded weather, In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard-seat! And birds and flowers once more to greet, My last year's friends together. One have I marked, the happiest guest In all this covert of the blest: . Hail to Thee, for above the rest In joy of voice and pinion! Thou, Linnet! in thy green array, Presiding Spirit here to-day, Dost lead the revels of the May; And this is thy dominion. While birds, aid butterflies, and flowers, Make all one band of paramours, Thou, ranging up and down the bowers, Art sole in thy employment: A Life, a Presence like the Air, Scattering thy gladness without care, Too blest with any one to pair; Thyself thy own enjoyment. Amid yon tuft of hazel trees, That twinkle to the gusty breeze, Behold him perched in ecstasies, Yet seeming still to hover; There! where the flutter of his wings Upon his back and body flings Shadows and sunny glimmerings, That cover him all over. My dazzled sight he oft deceives, A Brother of the dancing leaves; Then flits, and from the cottage-eaves Pours forth his song in gushes; As if by that exulting strain He mocked and treated with disdain The voiceless Form he chose to feign, While fluttering in the bushes.   , , , . , , , , , , , - , , - , - . : , , . . - , , , , - . , ! , , . - . , , , - , , . THE SOLITARY REAPER Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No Nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings? - Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending; - I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.   , , , , , . , - , , , . , . , . , ? , , . , ? , , , . , . . TO THE CUCKOO O blithe New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee!  , , ! , ? - , ? , ; , - . , , - . , , ! , , ; , , , , - , , , , , , , . , , ; , . . : . - , , , , ! x x x She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn; A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin-liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light. x x x , , , : - , - , , . - - : ; , ; , , , , , ?! , , , ; , , - . x x x I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed-and gazed-but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.  , , , . . , , , . , , . , , , . . , , , , , . THE SEVEN SISTERS, OR THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE I Seven Daughters had Lord Archibald, All children of one mother: You could not say in one short day What love they bore each other. A garland, of seven lilies, wrought! Seven Sisters that together dwell; But he, bold Knight as ever fought, Their Father, took of them no thought, He loved the wars so well. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie! II Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the shores of Erin, Across the wave, a Rover brave To Binnorie is steering: Right onward to the Scottish strand The gallant ship is borne; The warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the Leader of the band Hath blown his bugle horn. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. III Beside a grotto of their own, With boughs above them closing, The Seven are laid, and in the shade They lie like fawns reposing. But now, upstarting with affright At noise of man and steed, Away they fly to left, to right - Of your fair household, Father-knight, Methinks you take small heed! Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. IV Away the seven fair Campbells fly, And, over hill and hollow, With menace proud, and insult loud, The youthful Rovers follow. Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam: Enough for him to find The empty house when he comes home; For us your yellow ringlets comb, For us be fair and kind!" Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. V Some close behind, some side to side, Like clouds in stormy weather; They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die, And let us die together." A lake was near; the shore was steep; There never foot had been; They ran, and with a desperate leap Together plunged into the deep, Nor ever more were seen. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie. VI The stream that flows out of the lake, As through the glen it rambles, Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone, For those seven lovely Campbells. Seven little Islands, green and bare, Have risen from out the deep: The fishers say, those sisters fair, By faeries all are buried there, And there together sleep. Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie.   , - , ! , , -, ; , , . , , ... , ! , ... ... ... . , , -... " - ! ..." , ! , , , ... , ... ... , ... , , ? , , , , !.. , ! ... , ... , , . , ... , , : " , , , , -, , "... , ! , ... ... ? , . ... , ... - , ... , - , ... , ! : , , . , , ... , , ... , ! TO THE SPADE OF A FRIEND Composed while We Were Labouring Together in His Pleasure-Ground Spade! with which Wilkinson hath tilled his lands, And shaped these pleasant walks by Emont's side, Thou art a tool of honour in my hands; I press thee, through the yielding soil, with pride. Rare master has it been thy lot to know; Long hast Thou served a man to reason true; Whose life combines the best of high and low, The labouring many and the resting few; Health, meekness, ardour, quietness secure, And industry of body and of mind; And elegant enjoyments, that are pure As nature is; too pure to be refined. Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing In concord with his river murmuring by; Or in some silent field, while timid spring Is yet uncheered by other minstrelsy. Who shall inherit Thee when death has laid Low in the darksome cell thine own dear lord? That man will have a trophy, humble Spade! A trophy nobler than a conqueror's sword. If he be one that feels, with skill to part False praise from true, or, greater from the less, Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart, Thou monument of peaceful happiness! He will not dread with Thee a toilsome day - Thee his loved servant, his inspiring mate! And, when thou art past service, worn away, No dull oblivious nook shall hide thy fate. His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn; An _heir-loom_ in his cottage wilt thou be: - High will he hang thee up, well pleased to adorn His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!   , , ! , , ! , . , . , - . - , , , , , , , . , , . , ? - , - . , , . , , , , . , , , , , . ELEGIAC STANZAS, SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF PEEL CASTLE, IN A STORM, PAINTED BY SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT I was thy neighbour once, thou ragged Pile! Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: I saw thee every day; and all the while Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. So pure the sky, so quiet was the air! So like, so very like, was day to day! Whene'er I looked, thy Image still was there; It trembled, but it never passed away. How perfect was the calm! it seemed no sleep; No mood, which season takes away, or brings: I could have fancied that the mighty Deep Was even the gentlest of all gentle Things. Ah! then, if mine had been the Painter's hand, To express what then I saw; and add the gleam, The light that never was, on sea or land, The consecration, and the Poet's dream; I would have planted thee, thou hoary Pile Amid a world how different from this! Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. Thou shouldst have seemed a treasure-house divine Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven; - Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine The very sweetest had to thee been given. A Picture had it been of lasting ease, Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, Such Picture would I at that time have made: And seen the soul of truth in every part, A stedfast peace that might not be betrayed. So once it would have been, - 'tis so no more; I have submitted to a new control: A power is gone, which nothing can restore; A deep distress hath humanised my Soul. Not for a moment could I now behold A smiling sea, and be what I have been: The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old; This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. Then, Beaumont, Friend! who would have been the Friend, If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, This work of thine I blame not, but commend; This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. O 'tis a passionate Work! - yet wise and well, Well chosen is the spirit that is here; That, Hulk which labours in the deadly swell, This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear! And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, I love to see the look with which it braves, Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time, The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind! Such happiness, wherever it be known, Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind. But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, And frequent sights of what is to be borne! Such sights, or worse, as are before me here. - Not without hope we suffer and we mourn.  ,  , ! - , . , , ; , , , . , ; , . , , , , ; , , , , ; , , , , , , , - , , , . - : , , . , , : , . ! , ! : . , : , , ! : ,