A pure seed-pearl of infant dew,
Brought and besweeten'd in a blue
And pregnant violet; which done,
His kitling eyes begin to run
Quite through the table, where he spies
The horns of papery butterflies,
Of which he eats; and tastes a little
Of what we call the cuckoo's spittle:
A little furze-ball pudding stands
By, yet not blessed by his hands,
That was too coarse; but then forthwith
He ventures boldly on the pith
Of sugar'd rush, and eats the sag
And well-bestrutted bee's sweet bag;
Gladding his palate with some store
Of emmet's eggs; what would he more,
But beards of mice, a newt's stew'd thigh,
A bloated earwig, and a fly;
With the red-capp'd worm, that is shut
Within the concave of a nut,
Brown as a tooth; a little moth,
Late fatten'd in a piece of cloth;
With wither'd cherries; mandrake's ears;
Moles' eyes; to these, the slain stag's tears;
The unctuous dewlaps of a snail;
The broke heart of a nightingale
O'ercome in music; with a wine
Ne'er ravish'd from the flattering vine,
But gently press'd from the soft side
Of the most sweet and dainty bride,
Brought in a dainty daisy, which
He fully quaffs up to bewitch
His blood to height? This done, commended
Grace by the priest, the feast is ended.
WHAT time the Sun has from the West withdrawn
The various hues, that grac'd his cloudy fall-
When the recumbent ruminating fold
Greets, with peculiar odour, the fond sense
Of the lone wanderer-when the recent leaf
Of clover 'gins to sleep, and, white with dew,
Closes its tender triple-finger'd palm,
Till morning dawn afresh-when the moon wears
Nor hood, nor veil, nor looks with cold regard
Through the fine lawn of intervening cloud,
But lifts a fair round visage o'er the vale,
And smiles affection, which no bard can sing,
No painter with poetic pencil paint-
When the dark cloud, that couches in the West,
Seems to imbibe the last pale beam of eve,
Absorbing in its dun and gloomy folds,
The feeble residue of dying day-
Is it not pleasure, with unbended mind,
To muse within and meditate abroad,
While either hand in the warm bosom sleeps,
And either foot falls feebly on the floor,
And shaven sward, or stone that paves
the path
Of village footway winding to the church?
'Twere passing pleasure, if to man alone
That hour were grateful: but with like desire
The dusky holiday of thickening night,
Enjoys the chuckling partridge, the still mouse,
The rabbit foraging, the feeding hare,
The nightingale that warbles from the thorn,
And twilight-loving solitary owl,
That skims the meadows, hovers, drops her prey,
Seizes, and screeching to the tower returns.
Her woolly little ones there hiss on high,
And there who will, may seek them, but who dares
Must 'bide the keen magnanimous rebuff
Of irritated love, and quick descend,
By the maternal talon not in vain
Insulted, baffled, scar'd, and put to flight.
THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY.
THE noon was shady, and soft airs
Swept Ouse's silent tide,
When 'scap'd from literary cares,
I wander'd by its side.
My spaniel, prettiest of the race,
And high in pedigree,
(Two nymphs adorn'd with every grace
That spaniel found for me ;)
Now wanton'd, lost in flags and reeds,
Now starting into sight,
Pursued the swallow o'er the meads
With scarce a slower flight.
It was the time, when Ouse displayed
Her lilies newly blown;
Their beauties I intent surveyed,
And one I wish'd my own.
With cane extended far I sought
To steer it close to land :
But still the prize, though nearly caught,
Escap'd my eager hand.
Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains
With fix'd considerate face,
And puzzling set his puppy brains
To comprehend the case.
But with a chirrup clear and strong,
Dispersing all his dream,
I thence withdrew, and follow'd long
The windings of the stream.
My ramble ended, I return'd;
Beau, trotting far before,
The floating wreath again discern'd
And plunging left the shore.
I saw him with that lily cropp'd
Impatient swim to meet
My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd
The treasure at my feet.
Charm'd with the sight, the world, I cried,
Shall hear of this thy deed:
My dog shall mortify the pride
Of man's superior breed:
But chief myself I will enjoin,
Awake at duty's call,
To show a love as prompt as thine
TO HIM who gives me all.
THE HEATH-BELL OF SCOTLAND.
COME, little flower, the Scotsman's toast,
And pretty Highland lassie's boast:
Worn in the cap of warrior wight,
When he goes onward to the fight,
And bares his shining battle blade,
For native land and cottage maid :—
Worn in the bosom of the lass
Of many a hill or mountain-pass;
Who joy, as token they are true,
To sport the bit of faithful blue,
Transplanted from its bed of heath
To bloom pure Nature's breast aneath:
Come, little flower, I'll pluck thee now
To twine about my Jeannie's brow;
For in thy meek and modest dress
Thou'lt add unto her loveliness;
And seem to one who owns her rule,
Like her, so simply beautiful!
Come, little flower, on hill or dell
Grows not a bud I love so well
As thee, old Scotia's sweet Blue-bell.*
*The Heath-bell or Blue-bell, Campanula rotundifolia,-is not unfrequently
called the Hare-bell of Scotland.
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