DEAR common flower, that grow’st beside the way, Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, Which children pluck, and, full of pride, uphold, High-hearted buccaneers, o’erjoyed that they An Eldorado in the grass have found, Which not the rich earth’s ample round May match in wealth――thou art more dear to me Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be. Gold such as thine ne’er drew the Spanish prow Through the primeval hush of Indian seas, Nor wrinkled the lean brow Of age, to rob the lover’s heart of ease; ’Tis the Spring’s largess, which she scatters now To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand, Though most hearts never understand To take it at GOD’s value, but pass by The offer’d wealth with unrewarded eye. Thou art my trophies and mine Italy; To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime; The eyes thou givest me Are in the heart, and heed not space or time; Not in mid June the golden-cuirass’d bee Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment In the white lily’s breezy tint, His conquer’d Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst. Then think I of deep shadows on the grass―― Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze, Where, as the breezes pass, The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways―― Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass, Or whiten in the wind――of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through Some woodland gap――and of a sky above, Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move. My childhood’s earliest thoughts are link’d with thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin’s song, Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long, And I, secure in childish piety, Listen’d as if I heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he did bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears, When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. How like a prodigal doth Nature seem, When thou, for all thy gold, so common art! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart, Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child’s undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of GOD’s book. * * * * * THE ALPINE SHEEP.