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I.

A MORNING EXERCISE.

FANCY, who leads the pastimes of the glad,
Full oft is pleased a wayward dart to throw;
Sending sad shadows after things not sad,
Peopling the harmless fields with signs of woe:
Beneath her sway, a simple forest cry
Becomes an echo of Man's misery.

Blithe Ravens croak of death; and when the Owl Tries his two voices for a favourite strain Tu-whit -Tu-whoo! the unsuspecting fowl Forebodes mishap, or seems but to complain; Fancy, intent to harass and annoy,

Can thus pervert the evidence of joy.

Through border wilds where naked Indians stray, Myriads of notes attest her subtle skill;

A feathered Task-master cries, "WORK AWAY!"
And, in thy iteration, "WHIP POOR WILL*,"
Is heard the Spirit of a toil-worn Slave,
Lashed out of life, not quiet in the grave!

What wonder? at her bidding, ancient lays Steeped in dire griefs the voice of Philomel; And that fleet Messenger of summer days, The Swallow, twittered subject to like spell; But ne'er could Fancy bend the buoyant Lark To melancholy service hark! O hark!

* See Waterton's Wanderings in South America.

The daisy sleeps upon the dewy lawn,
Not lifting yet the head that evening bowed;
But He is risen, a later star of dawn,

Glittering and twinkling near yon rosy cloud;
Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark;
The happiest Bird that sprang out of the Ark!

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Hail, blest above all kinds!
Supremely skilled
Restless with fixed to balance, high with low,
Thou leav'st the Halcyon free her hopes to build
On such forbearance as the deep may show;
Perpetual flight, unchecked by earthly ties,
Leavest to the wandering Bird of Paradise.

Faithful, though swift as lightning, the meek Dove ; Yet more hath Nature reconciled in thee; So constant with thy downward eye of love, Yet, in aerial singleness, so free;

So humble, yet so ready to rejoice

In power of wing and never-wearied voice!

How would it please old Ocean to partake,
With Sailors longing for a breeze in vain,
The harmony that thou best lovest to make
Where earth resembles most his blank domain !
Urania's self might welcome with pleased ear
These matins mounting towards her native sphere.

Chanter by Heaven attracted, whom no bars
To day-light known deter from that pursuit,
'Tis well that some sage instinct, when the stars
Come forth at evening, keeps Thee still and mute;
For not an eyelid could to sleep incline
Wert thou among them singing as they shine!

II.

TO THE DAISY.

"Her divine skill taught me this,
That from every thing I saw
I could some instruction draw,
And raise pleasure to the height
Through the meanest object's sight.
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustelling;
By a Daisy whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed;
Or a shady bush or tree;
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man."

G. WITHERS.

IN youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,

Most pleased when most uneasy;
But now my own delights I make,
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And gladly Nature's love partake
Of thee, sweet Daisy!

When Winter decks his few grey hairs,
Thee in the scanty wreath he wears;
Spring parts the clouds with softest airs,
That she may sun thee;

*His muse.

Whole summer fields are thine by right;
And Autumn, melancholy Wight!
Doth in thy crimson head delight
When rains are on thee.

In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
Thou greetest the Traveller in the lane;
If welcome once thou countest it gain;
Thou art not daunted,

Nor carest if thou be set at naught:
And oft alone in nooks remote

We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
When such are wanted.

Be Violets in their secret mews

The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose;
Proud be the Rose, with rains and dews
Her head impearling;

Thou livest with less ambitious aim,
Yet hast not gone without thy fame;
Thou art indeed by many a claim
The Poet's darling.

If to a rock from rains he fly,
Or, some bright day of April sky,
Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie
Near the green holly,

And wearily at length should fare;
He needs but look about, and there
Thou art! a Friend at hand, to scare
His melancholy.

A hundred times, by rock or bower, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,

Have I derived from thy sweet power
Some apprehension;

Some steady love; some brief delight;
Some memory that had taken flight;
Some chime of fancy wrong or right;
Or stray invention.

If stately passions in me burn,

And one chance look to Thee should turn,
I drink out of an humbler urn
A lowlier pleasure;

The homely sympathy that heeds
The common life, our nature breeds;
A wisdom fitted to the needs

Of hearts at leisure.

When, smitten by the morning ray,
I see thee rise, alert and gay,
Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play
With kindred gladness:

And when, at dusk, by dews opprest
Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
Hath often eased my pensive breast
Of careful sadness.

And all day long I number yet,
All seasons through, another debt,
Which I, wherever thou art met,
To thee am owing;

An instinct call it, a blind sense;
A happy, genial influence,

Coming one knows not how, nor whence,
Nor whither going.

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