A flower how rich in sadness!

Even thus stoops,

(Sentient by Grecian sculpture's marvellous power)

Thus leans, with hanging brow and body bent.
Earthward in uncomplaining languishment,
The dying Gladiator. So, sad Flower!
('Tis Fancy guides me willing to be led,
Though by a slender thread,)

So drooped Adonis bathed in sanguine dew
Of his death-wound, when he from innocent air
The gentlest breath of resignation drew;
While Venus in a passion of despair

Rent, weeping over him, her golden hair
Spangled with drops of that celestial shower.
She suffered, as Immortals sometimes do;
But pangs more lasting far, that Lover knew

Who first, weighed down by scorn, in some lone bower
Did press this semblance of unpitied smart

Into the service of his constant heart,

His own dejection, downcast Flower! could share

With thine, and gave the mournful name which thou wilt ever bear.

This poem was originally composed in sonnet form, and belongs in that form probably to the year 1833. It occurs in a MS. copy of some of the sonnets which record the Tour of that year to the Isle of Man and to Scotland.-ED.

THEY call it Love lies bleeding! rather say
That in this crimson Flower Love bleeding droops,
A Flower how sick in sadness! Thus it stoops
With languid head unpropped from day to day
From month to month, life passing not away.
Even so the dying Gladiator leans

On mother earth, and from his patience gleams

Relics of tender thoughts, regrets that stay

A moment and are gone.

O fate-bowed flower!

Fair as Adonis bathed in sanguine dew,

Of his death-wound, that Lover's heart was true
As heaven, who pierced by scorn in some lone bower

Could press thy semblance of unpitied smart

Into the service of his constant heart.

COMPANION TO THE FOREGOING.

Comp. 1845.

Pub. 1845.

NEVER enlivened with the liveliest ray

That fosters growth or checks or cheers decay,
Nor by the heaviest rain-drops more deprest,
This Flower, that first appeared as summer's guest,
Preserves her beauty mid autumnal leaves

And to her mournful habits fondly cleaves.

When files of stateliest plants have ceased to bloom, One after one submitting to their doom,

When her coevals each and all are fled,

What keeps her thus reclined upon her lonesome bed?

The old mythologists, more impress'd than we
Of this late day by character in tree

Or herb, that claimed peculiar sympathy,
Or by the silent lapse of fountain clear,
Or with the language of the viewless air
By bird or beast made vocal, sought a cause
To solve the mystery, not in Nature's laws
But in Man's fortunes. Hence a thousand tales
Sung to the plaintive lyre in Grecian vales.

Nor doubt that something of their spirit swayed
The fancy-stricken Youth or heart-sick Maid,
Who, while each stood companionless and eyed
This undeparting Flower in crimson dyed,
Thought of a wound which death is slow to cure,
A fate that has endured and will endure,
And, patience coveting yet passion feeding,
Called the dejected Lingerer, Love lies bleeding.

[Of this clock I have nothing farther to say than what the poem expresses, except that it must be here recorded that it was a present from the dear friend for whose sake these notes were chiefly undertaken, and who has written them from my dictation.]

WOULDST thou be taught, when sleep has taken flight,

By a sure voice that can most sweetly tell,

How far-off yet a glimpse of morning light,
And if to lure the truant back be well,

Forbear to covet a Repeater's stroke,

That, answering to thy touch, will sound the hour;

Better provide thee with a Cuckoo-clock

For service hung behind thy chamber-door;

And in due time the soft spontaneous shock,

The double note, as if with living power,

Will to composure lead-or make thee blithe as bird in bower.

List, Cuckoo-Cuckoo oft tho' tempests howl,

Or nipping frost remind thee trees are bare,
How cattle pine, and droop the shivering fowl,
Thy spirits will seem to feed on balmy air:

I speak with knowledge,-by that Voice beguiled,
Thou wilt salute old memories as they throng

Into thy heart; and fancies, running wild

Through fresh green fields, and budding groves among,

Will make thee happy, happy as a child:

Of sunshine wilt thou think, and flowers, and song,
And breathe as in a world where nothing can go wrong.

And know that, even for him who shuns the day

And nightly tosses on a bed of pain;

Whose joys, from all but memory swept away,

Must come unhoped for, if they come again;

Know that, for him whose waking thoughts, severe

As his distress is sharp, would scorn my theme,

The mimic notes, striking upon his ear

In sleep, and intermingling with his dream,

Could from sad regions send him to a dear

Delightful land of verdure, shower, and gleam,

To mock the wandering Voice* beside some haunted stream.

O bounty without measure! while the grace

Of Heaven doth in such wise, from humblest springs,
Pour pleasure forth, and solaces that trace

A mazy course along familiar things,

Well may our hearts have faith that blessings come,
Streaming from founts above the starry sky,
With angels when their own untroubled home
They leave, and speed on nightly embassy

To visit earthly chambers,-and for whom?
Yea, both for souls who God's forbearance try,

And those that seek his help, and for his mercy sigh.

* Compare To the Cuckoo (Vol. III.,

p. 1.)

"O Cuckoo shall I call thee bird
Or but a wandering voice."

--ED.

So fair, so sweet, withal so sensitive,

Would that the little Flowers were born to live,
Conscious of half the pleasure which they give;
That to this mountain-daisy's self were known
The beauty of its star-shaped shadow, thrown
On the smooth surface of this naked stone!
And what if hence a bold desire should mount
High as the Sun, that he could take account
Of all that issues from his glorious fount!

So might he ken how by his sovereign aid
These delicate companionships are made;
And how he rules the pomp of light and shade;
And were the Sister-power that shines by night
So privileged, what a countenance of delight
Would through the clouds break forth on human sight!

Fond fancies! wheresoe'er shall turn thine eye

On earth, air, ocean, or the starry sky,
Converse with Nature in pure sympathy;

All vain desires, all lawless wishes quelled,
Be Thou to love and praise alike impelled,
Whatever boon is granted or withheld. *

* The following account of the circumstance which gave rise to the preceding poem is from the Memoir of Professor Archer Butler, by Mr Woodward, prefixed to the "First Series" of his Sermons. The Rev. R. Percival Graves, of Dublin (then-in 1849-of Windermere), in writing to Mr Woodward, gives an interesting account of a walk, in July 1844, from Windermere, by Rydal and Grasmere, to Loughrigg Tarn, &c., in which Butler was accompanied by Wordsworth, Julius Charles Hare, Sir William Hamilton, &c. He says, "The day was additionally memorable as giving birth to an interesting minor poem of Mr Wordsworth's. When we reached the side of Loughrigg Tarn (which you may remember he notes for its similarity, in the peculiar character of its beauty, to the Lago di Nemi -Dianae Speculum), the loveliness of the scene arrested our steps and fixed our gaze. The splendour of a July noon surrounded us and lit up