But, exiled from Australian Bowers,

And singleness her lot,

She trills her with tutored powers,

song

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
By social glee inspired;

Ambitious to be seen or heard,
And pleased to be admired!

This moss-lined shed, green, soft, and dry,
Harbours a self-contented Wren,

Not shunning man's abode, though shy,
Almost as thought itself, of human ken.

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;

That tells the Hermitess still lives,

Though she appear not, and be sought in vain.

Say, Dora! tell me by yon placid Moon,
If called to choose between the favoured pair,
Which would you be,—the Bird of the Saloon,
By Lady fingers tended with nice care,
Caressed, applauded, upon dainties fed,
Or Nature's DARKLING of this mossy Shed?

VI.

TO THE SMALL CELANDINE.*

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.

* Common Pilewort.

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 shew 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,

Scorned 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!