Maternal Flora! show thy face,
And let thy hand be seen,

Thy hand here sprinkling tiny flowers,
That, as they touch the green,
Take root (so seems it) and look up
In honour of their Queen.

Yet, sooth, those little starry specks,
That not in vain aspired

To be confounded with live growths,
Most dainty, most admired,
Were only blossoms dropped from twigs
Of their own offspring tired.

Not such the World's illusive shows;
Her wingless flutterings,

Her blossoms which, though shed, outbrave
The floweret as it springs,

For the undeceived, smile as they may,

Are melancholy things:

But gentle Nature plays her part

With ever-varying wiles,

And transient feignings with plain truth

So well she reconciles,

That those fond Idlers most are pleased

Whom oftenest she beguiles.

XXVII.

THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES.

THAT way look, my Infant, lo!
What a pretty baby-show!

See the Kitten on the wall,

Sporting with the leaves that fall,

Withered leaves-one-two-and three

From the lofty elder-tree!

Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink
Softly, slowly one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or Faery hither tending,-
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,

In his wavering parachute.

-But the Kitten, how she starts,

Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!

First at one, and then its fellow
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now-now one-
Now they stop and there are none:
What intenseness of desire

In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-leap half way
Now she meets the coming prey,

Lets it go as fast, and then

Has it in her power again :

Now she works with three or four,

Like an Indian conjurer;

Quick as he in feats of art,

Far beyond in joy of heart.

Were her antics played in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,

Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care

For the plaudits of the crowd?
Over happy to be proud,

Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure!

'Tis a pretty baby-treat;
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet ;
Here, for neither Babe nor me,
Other play-mate can I see.
Of the countless living things,
That with stir of feet and wings

(In the sun or under shade,
Upon bough or grassy blade)
And with busy revellings,
Chirp and song, and murmurings,
Made this orchard's narrow space,
And this vale so blithe a place ;
Multitudes are swept away
Never more to breathe the day:
Some are sleeping; some in bands
Travelled into distant lands;
Others slunk to moor and wood,
Far from human neighbourhood;
And, among the Kinds that keep
With us closer fellowship,
With us openly abide,

All have laid their mirth aside.

Where is he that giddy Sprite, Blue-cap, with his colours bright, Who was blest as bird could be,

Feeding in the apple-tree;

Made such wanton spoil and rout,

Turning blossoms inside out;

Hung-head pointing towards the ground

Fluttered, perched, into a round

Bound himself, and then unbound;

Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin!

Prettiest Tumbler ever seen!

Light of heart and light of limb;

What is now become of Him?

Lambs, that through the mountains went

Frisking, bleating merriment,

When the year was in its prime,

They are sobered by this time.

If

you

look to vale or hill,

If you listen, all is still,

Save a little neighbouring rill,
That from out the rocky ground
Strikes a solitary sound.
Vainly glitter hill and plain,
And the air is calm in vain ;
Vainly Morning spreads the lure
Of a sky serene and pure;
Creature none can she decoy
Into open sign of joy :
Is it that they have a fear
Of the dreary season near
Or that other pleasures be
Sweeter even than gaiety?

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell

In the impenetrable cell

Of the silent heart which Nature
Furnishes to every creature;
Whatsoe'er we feel and know

Too sedate for outward show,