The brook that mirrored clear the sky—
Full well I know the spot;
The mouse-ear looked with bright blue eye,
And said “Forget-me-not.”
And from the brook I turned away,
But heard it many an after day.
The king-cup on its slender stalk,
Within the pasture dell,
Would picture there a pleasant walk
With one I loved so well.
It said “How sweet at eventide
’Twould be, with true love at thy side.”
And on the pasture’s woody knoll
I saw the wild bluebell,
On Sundays, where I used to stroll
With her I loved so well:
She culled the flowers the year before;
These bowed, and told the story o’er.
And every flower that had a name
Would tell me who was fair;
But those without, as strangers, came
And blossomed silent there:
I stood to hear, but all alone:
They bloomed and kept their thoughts unknown.
But seasons now have nought to say,
The flowers no news to bring:
Alone I live from day to day—
Flowers deck the bier of Spring;
And birds upon the bush or tree
All sing a different tale to me.
TO JOHN MILTON
POET of mighty power, I fain
Would court the muse that honoured thee,
And, like Elisha’s spirit, gain
A part of thy intensity;
And share the mantle which she flung
Around thee, when thy lyre was strung.
Though faction’s scorn at first did shun,
With coldness, thy inspired song,
Though clouds of malice pass’d thy sun,
They could not hide it long;
Its brightness soon exhaled away
Dark night, and gained eternal day.
The critics’ wrath did darkly frown
Upon thy muse’s mighty lay;
But blasts that break the blossom down
Do only stir the bay;
And thine shall flourish, green and long,
In the eternity of song.