Poets love Nature, and themselves are love. Though scorn of fools, and mock of idle pride. The vile in nature worthless deeds approve, They court the vile and spurn all good beside. Poets love Nature; like the calm of Heaven, Like Heaven's own love, her gifts spread far and wide: In all her works there are no signs of leaven * * * * Her flowers * * * * They are her very Scriptures upon earth, And teach us simple mirth where'er we go. Even in prison they can solace me, For where they bloom God is, and I am free. HOME YEARNINGS O for that sweet, untroubled rest That poets oft have sung!-- The babe upon its mother's breast, The bird upon its young, The heart asleep without a pain-- When shall I know that sleep again? When shall I be as I have been Upon my mother's breast-- Sweet Nature's garb of verdant green To woo to perfect rest-- Love in the meadow, field, and glen, And in my native wilds again? The sheep within the fallow field, The herd upon the green, The larks that in the thistle shield, And pipe from morn to e'en-- O for the pasture, fields, and fen! When shall I see such rest again? I love the weeds along the fen, More sweet than garden flowers, For freedom haunts the humble glen That blest my happiest hours. Here prison injures health and me: I love sweet freedom and the free. The crows upon the swelling hills, The cows upon the lea, Sheep feeding by the pasture rills, Are ever dear to me, Because sweet freedom is their mate, While I am lone and desolate. I loved the winds when I was young, When life was dear to me; I loved the song which Nature sung, Endearing liberty; I loved the wood, the vale, the stream, For there my boyhood used to dream. There even toil itself was play; 'T was pleasure e'en to weep; 'T was joy to think of dreams by day, The beautiful of sleep. When shall I see the wood and plain, And dream those happy dreams again? MY SCHOOLBOY DAYS The Spring is come forth, but no Spring is for me Like the Spring of my boyhood on woodland and lea, When flowers brought me heaven and knew me again, In the joy of their blooming o'er mountain and plain. My thoughts are confined and imprisoned: O when Will freedom find me my own valleys again? The wind breathes so sweet, and the day is so calm; In the woods and the thicket the flowers look so warm; And the grass is so green, so delicious and sweet; O when shall my manhood my youth's valleys meet-- The scenes where my children are laughing at play-- The scenes that from memory are fading away? The primrose looks happy in every field; In strange woods the violets their odours will yield, And flowers in the sunshine, all brightly arrayed, Will bloom just as fresh and as sweet in the shade, But the wild flowers that bring me most joy and content Are the blossoms that glow where my childhood was spent.