Pranks with bright blue the tissue wove
Of verdant foliage; and above,
With milk-white flowers, whence soon shall swell
Rich fruitage, to the taste and smell
Pleasant alike, the strawberry weaves
Its coronets of three-fold leaves,
In mazes through the sloping wood.
Nor wants there in her dreamy mood,
What fancy's sportiveness may think
A cup, whence midnight elves might drink
Delicious drops of nectar'd dew,
While they their fairy sports pursue,
And roundelays by fount or rill-
The streak'd and chequer'd daffodil.
Nor wants there many a flower beside,
On holt, and hill, and meadow pied;
With pale green gloom the upright box,
And woodland crowfoot's golden locks;
And yellow cinquefoil's hairy trail;
And saxifrage with petal pale;
And purple bilberry's globelike head;
And cranberry's bells of rosy red;
And creeping groundsel blue and bright;
And cranesbill's streaks of red and white,
On purple with soft leaves of down,
And golden tulip's turban'd crown,
Sweet scented on its bending stem;
And bright-eyed star of Bethlehem;
With those, the firstlings of their kind,
Which through the bosky thickets wind
Their tendrils, vetch, or pea, or tare,
At random; and with many a pair
Of leaflets green the brake embower,
And many a pendant-painted flower.
Each leaflet is a tiny scroll
Inscribed with holy truth,
A lesson that around the heart
Should keep the dew of youth;
Bright missals from angelic throngs
In every by-way left
How were the earth of glory shorn
Were it of flowers bereft !
They tremble on the Alpine heights,
The fissured rock they press,
The desert wild with heat and sand,
Shares too their blessedness;
And wheresoe'er the weary heart
Turns in its dim despair,
The meek-eyed blossom upward looks,
Inviting it to prayer!
SEE, Delia, see this image bright,
Why starts my fair one at the sight?
It mounts not on offensive wing,
Nor threats thy breast with angry sting;
Admire, as close the insect lies,
Its thin-wrought plume and honey'd thighs;
Whilst on this floweret's velvet breast,
It seems as though 'twere lull'd to rest,
Nor might its fairy wings unfold,
Enchain'd in aromatic gold.
Think not to set the captive free,
"Tis but the picture of a bee.
Yet wonder not that nature's power,
Should paint an insect in a flower,
And stoop to means that bear in part
Resemblance to imperfect art.
Nature, who could that form inspire
With strength and swiftness, life and fire,
And bid it search each spicy vale,
Where flowers their fragrant souls exhale;
And labouring for the parent hive,
With murmurs make the wild alive.
For when in Parian stone we trace
Some best remember'd form or face;
Or see on radiant canvass rise
An imitative paradise;
And feel the warm affections glow,
Pleased at the pencil's mimic show;
'Tis but obedience to the plan
From nature's birth opposed to man,
Who, lest her choicest sweets in vain
Should blossom for our thankless train;
Lest beauty pass unheeded by,
Like cloud upon the summer sky;
Lest memory of the brave and just,
Should sleep with them confined to dust;
With leading hand the expedient proves,
And paints for us the form she loves.
THRICE Welcome, little English flower!
Thy mother country's white and red,
In rose or lily, till this hour
Never to me such beauty spread:
Transplanted from thy island bed,
A treasure in a grain of earth,
Strange as a spirit from the dead,
Thy embryo sprang to birth.
Thrice welcome, little English flower!
Whose tribes beneath our native skies
Shut close their leaves while vapours lower,
But when the sun's gay beams arise,
With unabash'd but modest eyes,
Follow his motion to the west,
Nor cease to gaze till daylight dies,
Then fold themselves to rest.
Thrice welcome, little English flower.
To this resplendent hemisphere,
Where Flora's giant-offspring tower
In gorgeous liveries all the year;
Thou, only thou, art little here,
Like worth unfriended and unknown,
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