A hundred times, by rock or bower, Some steady love; some brief delight; If stately passions in me burn, And one chance look to Thee should turn, 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. When, smitten by the morning ray, Then, chearful Flower! my spirits play At dusk, I've seldom mark'd thee press Without some feeling, more or less, And all day long I number yet, To thee am owing; An instinct call it, a blind sense; A happy, genial influence, Coming one knows not how nor whence, Nor whither going. Child of the Year! that round dost run Thy course, bold lover of the sun, And chearful when the day's begun Thou long the Poet's praise shalt gain; In times to come; thou not in vain LOUIS A. I met Louisa in the shade; And, having seen that lovely Maid, That she is ruddy, fleet, and strong; And she hath smiles to earth unknown; Smiles, that with motion of their own Do spread, and sink, and rise; That come and go with endless play, And ever, as they pass away, Are hidden in her eyes. She loves her fire, her Cottage-home; Yet o'er the moorland will she roam And when against the wind she 'strains, Oh! might I kiss the mountain rains Take all that's mine "beneath the moon," If I with her but half a noon May sit beneath the walls Of some old cave, or mossy nook, |