III. THE SPARROW'S NEST. BEHOLD, within the leafy shade, The home and sheltered bed, The Sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by, Together visited. She looked at it as if she feared it; A little Prattler among men. She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares, and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; And love, and thought, and joy. IV. TO A BUTTERFLY. I've watched you now a full half-hour, I know not if you sleep or feed. How motionless!-not frozen seas More motionless! and then What joy awaits you, when the breeze Hath found you out among And calls you forth again! the trees, This plot of Orchard-ground is ours; Come often to us, fear no wrong; Sit near us on the bough! We'll talk of sunshine and of song; And summer days when we were young; Sweet childish days, that were as long As twenty days are now. V. A FAREWELL. COMPOSED IN THE YEAR 1802. FAREWELL, thou little Nook of mountain-ground, Of that magnificent Temple which doth bound The loveliest spot that man hath ever found, Our boat is safely anchor'd by the shore, Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell! For two months now in vain we shall be sought; here in solitude to dwell We leave you With these our latest gifts of tender thought; Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat, Bright gowan, and marsh-marygold, farewell! Whom from the borders of the Lake we brought, And placed together near our rocky Well. We go for one to whom ye will be dear; A gentle Maid, whose heart is lowly bred, And love the blessed life that we lead here. Dear Spot! which we have watched with tender heed, Thou for our sakes, though Nature's Child indeed, Hast taken gifts which thou dost little need. And O most constant, yet most fickle Place, That hast thy wayward moods, as thou dost show To them who look not daily on thy face; Who, being loved, in love no bounds dost know, Of weeds and flowers, till we return be slow, Help us to tell her tales of years gone by, -- And this sweet spring the best beloved and best. Joy will be flown in its mortality; Something must stay to tell us of the rest. Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast And in this Bush our Sparrow built her nest, O happy Garden! whose seclusion deep |