We’ll leave it as we found it; safety’s guard Of pathless solitude shall keep it still. See there; she’s sitting on the old oak bough, Mute in her fears; our presence doth retard Her joys, and doubt turns every rapture chill. Sing on, sweet bird! may no worse hap befall Thy visions, than the fear that now deceives. We will not plunder music of its dower, Nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall; For melody seems hid in every flower, That blossoms near thy home. These harebells all Seem bowing with the beautiful in song; And gaping cuckoo-flowers, with spotted leaves, Seems blushing of the singing it has heard. How curious is the nest; no other bird Uses such loose materials, or weaves Its dwelling in such spots: dead open leaves Are placed without, and velvet moss within, And little scraps of grass, and, scant and spare, What scarcely seem materials, down and hair; For from men’s haunts she nothing seems to win. Yet Nature is the builder, and contrives Homes for her children’s comfort, even here; Where Solitude’s disciples spend their lives Unseen, save when a wanderer passes near That loves such pleasant places. Deep adown, The nest is made a hermit’s mossy cell. Snug lie her curious eggs in number five, Of deadened green, or rather olive brown; And the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well. So here we’ll leave them, still unknown to wrong, As the old woodland’s legacy of song. TO P**** Fair was thy bloom, when first I met Thy summer’s maiden-blossom; And thou art fair and lovely yet, And dearer to my bosom. O thou wert once a wilding flower, All garden flowers excelling, And still I bless the happy hour That led me to thy dwelling. Though nursed by field, and brook, and wood, And wild in every feature, Spring ne’er unsealed a fairer bud, Nor found a blossom sweeter. Of all the flowers the Spring hath met, And it has met with many, Thou art to me the fairest yet, And loveliest, of any. Though ripening summers round thee bring Buds to thy swelling bosom, That wait the cheering smiles of spring To ripen into blossom; These buds shall added blessings be, To make our loves sincerer: For as their flowers resemble thee, They’ll make thy memory dearer. And though thy bloom shall pass away, By winter overtaken, Thoughts of the past will charms display, And many joys awaken. When time shall every sweet remove, And blight thee on my bosom-- Let beauty fade--to me, my love, Thou’lt ne’er be out of blossom! A WORLD FOR LOVE