I.

I spoke by chance of modest flowers,
And how, in all the banks and bowers
Of vernal Bagley's greenwood ways,
They ever added to my store
Of festal joys, a charm the more
To Christian holidays.

II.

A kind heart, little known to me,
Amid the various company
That night this random mention heard.
I spoke with truth, but never thought
What welcome service would be wrought
For me by that stray word.

III.

Yet when we utter what we fee,
The homeliest, simplest things will steal

Long, Roger in vain
Strove Cic'ley to gain,
And that Something he wanted she knew;
Yet still she reply'd,
First make me your Bride,
Or — I wish I may die if I do.

Quoth Roger , Next Fair
I'll deck out your hair
With a Top-knot, green, yellow, or blue.
No Top-knot, pray, bring
Without the Gold-Ring,
Or — I wish I may die if I do.

Of Trophies and Laurels I mean not to sing,
Of Prussia 's brave Prince, or of Britain 's good King:
Here the Poor claim my song; then the art I'll display,
How you all shall be gainers — by giving away.
Derry down .
The cruse of the widow, you very well know,
The more it was emptied, the fuller did flow:
So here with your Purse the like wonder you'll find;
The more you draw out, still — the more left behind.
Derry down .

In antient times. when honour bore the bell,
And people blush'd not, at their doing well;
Where, crush'd, beneath triumphant envy's weight,
The hand of valour wore the chain of state;
There did the daring muse devote her rhymes,
And grateful verse condemn'd ungrateful crimes.
B UT , in our more improv'd, and bart'ring days,
There's a price currant stampt on poet's praise;
The workman strikes but as his labour's paid,
And heroes rise and fall, like stocks in trade .

TO MY BROTHER EDWARD .

I.

I have wishes, I have dreams,
And some vagrant hope which seems
Like a most uncertain star,
Still a joy, a joy from far:
Yet the Future is to me
Bright and barren as the sea,
Bare of sorrow, bare of glee.
When the present hour is weary
Old times are my sanctuary.

In my heart are many springs,
All with cheerful murmurings;
But their sweetness lures my mind
Oft its armor to unbind:
Then the Past my succor is,
A restraint on present bliss,

" Why anchorest thou in those blue lakes for ever,
Dear Student of the moorland and the river? " —
My old Companion! we have been apart
And have lost count of one another's heart.
A various Past, an unknown region lies
Between the sweet tract of our memories
And the too-stirring Present. I have been
A wanderer now through many a foreign scene,
Not without inward change; and I have dwelt
Much in my lonely spirit, till I felt
I was a person to myself unknown;
And this hath been one fruit of being alone.
And I have changed each image of my life;

I.

Come, let us climb S KORR-URRAN'S snowy top;
Cold , as it seems, it is less cold, than you:
Thin, thro' its snow , these lambs its heath-twigs crop;
Your snow, more hostile, starves, and freezes, too.

II.

What, tho' I lov'd, of late, in Skey's fair isle!
And blush'd — and bow'd — and shrunk from K ENZA'S eye!
All, she had power to hurt with, was her smile ;
But 'tis a frown of yours, for which I die.

III.

He is dead! but we do not weep.
We shall keep his memory green,
But our thoughts shall be thoughts of pride
That such men as he have been.

When the Wolf was out on the hills,
His cruel fangs red with gore —
With the blood of the noble dead —
His cruel heart wild for more.

When those who would stay his march
Slept under the unblest clay,
Or pined in the prison cell,
Shut out from the light of day.

When the flock was faced with death,
And with horrors no tongue could tell —
Faced with the pitiless will

Dear little dark Rose! the winds of hate
Have striven to scorch and sear thee;
But hate shall wither and love shall reign;
And the foe that has mocked shall fear thee.

Thy stem shall be green, thy leaves shall be red,
Each flower of the earth shall praise thee,
And prayers shall be prayed for the souls of all
Who died while they tried to raise thee.

Sweet Falsehoods, fare ye well!
That may not longer dwell
In this fond heart, dear paramours of Youth!
A cold, unloving bride
Is ever at my side —
Yet who so pure, so beautiful as Truth?

Long hath she sought my side,
And would not be denied,
Till, all perforce, she won my spirit o'er —
And though her glances be
But hard and stern to me,
At every step I love her more and more.