Comfort have thou of thy merit,
Kindly, unaffuming spirit!
Careless of thy neighbourhood,
Thou doft show thy pleasant face
On the moor, and in the wood,
In the lane—there's not a place,
Howfoever mean it be,
But 't is good enough for thee.
Ill befall the yellow flowers,
Children of the flaring hours!
Buttercups, that will be seen,
Whether we will fee 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 flighted 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 fing, as doth behove,
Hymns in praise of what I love!
Pleasures newly found are sweet,
When they lie about our feet:
February laft, my heart
First at fight of thee was glad;
All unheard of as thou art,
Thou must needs, I think, have had,
Celandine! and long ago,
Praise of which I nothing know.
I have not a doubt but he,
Whofoe'er the man might be,
Who the first with pointed rays,
(Workman worthy to be fainted)
Set the fign-board in a blaze,
When the risen fun he painted,
Took the fancy from a glance
At thy glittering countenance.
Soon as gentle breezes bring
News of winter's vanishing,
And the children build their bowers,
Sticking kerchief-pots of mould
All about with full-blown flowers,
Thick as fheep in fhepherd's fold!
With the proudest thou art there,
Mantling in the tiny square.
Often have I figh'd to measure
By myself a lonely pleasure,
Sigh'd to think I read a book,
Only read, perhaps, by me;
Yet I long could overlook
Thy bright coronet and thee,
And thy arch and wily ways,
And thy ftore of other praise.
Blithe of heart, from week to week,
Thou doft play at hide-and-seek;
While the patient primrose fits
Like a beggar in the cold,
Thou, a flower of wifer wits,
Thou art not beyond the moon, But a thing "beneath our fhoon: "
Let, as old Magellan did,
Others roam about the fea;
Build who will a pyramid;
Praise it is enough for me,
If there be but three or four
Who will love my little flower.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills When all at once I faw a crowd,
A hoft of golden daffodils;
Befide the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the ftars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay :
Ten thousand faw I at a glance,
Toffing their heads in fprightly dance.
The waves befide them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee :
A Poet could not but be gay,
In fuch a jocund company :
I gazed-and gazed-but little thought What wealth the fhow to me had brought:
For oft when on my couch I lie,
In vacant or in penfive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the blifs of folitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
TO THE ROCK IN THE ORCHARD.
Who fancied what a pretty fight
This rock would be if edged around
With living fnowdrops-circlet bright?
How glorious to this orchard ground!
Who loved the little rock, and fet
Upon its head this coronet?
Was it the humour of a child?
Or rather of fome love-fick maid,
Whose brows, the day that she was styled
The fhepherd queen, were thus array'd !
Of man mature, or matron fage!
Or old man toying with his age?
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