Her divine skill taught me this, That from every thing I saw I could some instruction draw, And raise pleasure to the height Through the meanest objects sight. By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough’s rustelling; By a Daisy whose leaves spread Shut when Titan goes to bed; Or a shady bush or tree; She could more infuse in me Than all Nature’s beauties can In some other wiser man.’ G. Wither. IN youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent, Most pleased when most uneasy; But now my own delights I make,– My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly Nature’s love partake, Of Thee, sweet Daisy! Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly decks his few grey hairs; 10 Spring parts the clouds with softest airs, That she may sun thee; Whole Summer-fields are thine by right; And Autumn, melancholy Wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee. In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet’st the traveller in the lane; Pleased at his greeting thee again; Yet nothing daunted, 20 Nor grieved if thou be set at nought: And oft alone in nooks remote We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted. Be violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton Zephyrs choose; Proud be the rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling, Thou liv’st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; 30 Thou art indeed by many a claim The Poet’s darling. If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie Near the green holly, And wearily at length should fare; He needs but look about, and there Thou art!–a friend at hand, to scare His melancholy. 40 A hundred times, by rock or bower, Ere thus I have lain couched an hour, Have I derived from thy sweet power Some apprehension; Some steady love; some brief delight; Some memory that had taken flight; Some chime of fancy wrong or right; Or stray invention. If stately passions in me burn, And one chance look to Thee should turn, 50 I drink out of an humbler urn A lowlier pleasure; The homely sympathy that heeds The common life, our nature breeds; A wisdom fitted to the needs Of hearts at leisure. Fresh-smitten by the morning ray, When thou art up, alert and gay, Then, cheerful Flower! my spirits play With kindred gladness: 60 And when, at dusk, by dews opprest Thou sink’st, the image of thy rest Hath often eased my pensive breast Of careful sadness. And all day long I number yet, All seasons through, another debt, Which I, wherever thou art met, To thee am owing; An instinct call it, a blind sense; A happy, genial influence, 70 Coming one knows not how, nor whence, Nor whither going. Child of the Year! that round dost run Thy pleasant course,–when day’s begun As ready to salute the sun As lark or leveret, Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain; Nor be less dear to future men Than in old time;–thou not in vain Art Nature’s favourite. 80 1802.