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The darling of children and men?
Could Father Adam * open his eyes
And see this sight beneath the skies,
He'd wish to close them again.
-If the Butterfly knew but his friend,
Hither his flight he would bend;
And find his way to me,

Under the branches of the tree:

In and out, he darts about;

Can this be the bird, to man so good,

That, after their bewildering,

Covered with leaves the little children,

So painfully in the wood?

What ailed thee, Robin, that thou could'st pursue

A beautiful creature,

That is gentle by nature?

Beneath the summer sky

From flower to flower let him fly;

"Tis all that he wishes to do.

The cheerer Thou of our in-door sadness,
He is the friend of our summer gladness:
What hinders, then, that ye should be
Playmates in the sunny weather,
And fly about in the air together!
His beautiful wings in crimson are drest,
A crimson as bright as thine own:
Would'st thou be happy in thy nest,
O pious Bird! whom man loves best,
Love him, or leave him alone!

1806.

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XVIIL

ON SEEING A NEEDLECASE IN THE FORM OF A HARP.

THE WORK OF E.M.S.

Fnowys are on every Muse's face,
Reproaches from their lips are sent,
Taat mimicry should thus disgrace
The noble Instrument.

A very Harp in all but size!

Needles for strings in apt gradation!
Minerva's self would stigmatize
The unclassic profanation.

Even her own needle that subdued
Aracine's rival spirit,

Though wrought in Vulcan's happiest mood,
Such honour could not merit.

And this, too, from the Laureate's Child,
A Eving lord of melody!

How will her Sire be reconciled
To the refined indignity?

Ipake, when whispered a low voice,

Bard! moderate your ire;

Spirits of all degrees rejoice
In presence of the lyre.

The Minstrels of Pygmean bands,
Dwarf Genii, moonlight-loving Fays,
Have shells to fit their tiny hands
And suit their slender lays.

Some, still more delicate of ear,

Have lutes (believe my words)
We framework is of gossamer,
While sunbeams are the chords.

Gay Sylphs this miniature will court,
Made vocal by their brushing wings,
And sullen Gnomes will learn to sport
Around its polished strings;

Whence strains to love-sick maiden dear,
While in her lonely bower she tries
To that the thought she cannot cheer,
By fanciful embroideries.

Trust, angry Bard! a knowing Sprite,
No tank the Harp her lot deplores;
Tahmid the stars the Lyre shine bright,
Love stoops as fondly as he soars.”

1827.

XIX.

TO A LADY,

IN ANSWER TO A REQUEST THAT I WOULD WRITE HER A POEM UPON SOME LRAWINGS THAT SHE HAD MADE OF FLOWERS IN THE 18LAND OF MADEIRA.

FAIR Lady! can I sing of flowers

That in Madeira bloom and fade,

I who ne'er sate within their bowers,

Nor through their sunny lawns have strayed? How they in sprightly dance are worn By Shepherd-groom or May-day queen, Or holy festal pomps adorn,

These eyes have never seen.

Yet tho' to me the pencil's art

No like remembrances can give, Your portraits still may reach the heart And there for gentle pleasure live; While Fancy ranging with free scope Shall on some lovely Alien set A name with us endeared to hope, To peace, or fond regret.

Still as we look with nicer care,

Some new resemblance we may trace: A Heart's-ease will perhaps be there,

A Speedwell may not want its place. And so may we, with charmed mind Beholding what your skill has wrought, Another Star-of-Bethlehem find,

A new Forget-me-not.

From earth to heaven with motion fleet

From heaven to earth our thoughts will pass,

A Holy-thistle here we meet

And there a Shepherd's weather-glass;

And haply some familiar name

Shall grace the fairest, sweetest, plant Whose presence cheers the drooping frame Of English Emigrant.

Gazing she feels its power beguile

Sad thoughts, and breathes with easier breath; Alas! that meek that tender smile

Is but a harbinger of death: And pointing with a feeble hand

She says, in faint words by sighs broken, Bear for me to my native land

This precious Flower, true love's last token.

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