The Sun has long been set: The Stars are out by twos and threes; The little Birds are piping yet Among the bushes and trees; There's a Cuckoo, and one or two thrushes; And a noise of wind that rushes, With a noise of water that gushes; And the Cuckoo's sovereign cry Fills all the hollow of the sky!

Who would go "parading" 10 In London, and "masquerading,"

On such a night of June?

With that beautiful soft half-moon, And all these innocent blisses, On such a night as this is!

3.

O Nightingale! thou surely art A Creature of a fiery heart-- These notes of thine they pierce, and pierce; Tumultuous harmony and fierce!

Thou sing'st as if the G.o.d of wine Had help'd thee to a Valentine; A song in mockery and despite Of shades, and dews, and silent Night, And steady bliss, and all the Loves Now sleeping in these peaceful groves! 10

I heard a Stockdove sing or say His homely tale, this very day.

His voice was buried among trees, Yet to be come at by the breeze: He did not cease; but coo'd--and coo'd; And somewhat pensively he woo'd: He sang of love with quiet blending, Slow to begin, and never ending; Of serious faith, and inward glee; That was the Song, the Song for me! 20

4.

My heart leaps up when I behold A Rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a Man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die!

The Child is Father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

5. _WRITTEN IN MARCH_, While resting on the Bridge at the Foot of Brother's Water.

The cook is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one! 10 Like an army defeated The Snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The Plough-boy is whooping--anon--anon: There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone! 20

6. _THE SMALL CELANDINE_.

Common Pilewort.

There is a Flower, the Lesser Celandine, That shrinks, like many more, from cold and rain; And, the first moment that the sun may shine, Bright as the sun itself, 'tis out again!

When hailstones have been falling swarm on swarm, Or blasts the green field and the trees distress'd, Oft have I seen it m.u.f.fled up from harm, In close self-shelter, like a Thing at rest.

But lately, one rough day, this Flower I pa.s.s'd, And recognized it, though an alter'd Form, 10 Now standing forth an offering to the Blast, And buffetted at will by Rain and Storm,

I stopp'd, and said with inly muttered voice, "It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold: This neither is it's courage nor it's choice, But it's necessity in being old."

The sunshine may not bless it, nor the dew; It cannot help itself in it's decay; Stiff in it's members, wither'd, changed of hue.

And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was grey. 20

To be a Prodigal's Favorite--then, worse truth, A Miser's Pensioner--behold our lot!

O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth Age might but take the things Youth needed not!

7.

I wandered lonely as a Cloud That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills, When all at once I saw a crowd A host of dancing Daffodills; Along the Lake, beneath the trees, Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.

The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:-- A Poet could not but be gay In such a laughing company: 10 I gaz'd--and gaz'd--but little thought What wealth the shew to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude, And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the Daffodils.

8.

Who fancied what a pretty sight This Rock would be if edged around With living Snowdrops? circlet bright!

How glorious to this Orchard ground!

Who loved the little Rock, and set Upon its Head this Coronet?

Was it the humour of a Child?

Or rather of some love-sick Maid, Whose brows, the day that she was styled The Shepherd Queen, were thus arrayed?

Of Man mature, or Matron sage?

Or old Man toying with his age?

I ask'd--'twas whisper'd, The device To each or all might well belong.

It is the Spirit of Paradise That prompts such work, a Spirit strong, That gives to all the self-same bent Where life is wise and innocent.

9. _THE SPARROW'S NEST_.