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. Thy genius saw, in quiet mood, Gilt fashion’s follies pass thee by, And, like the monarch of the wood, Tower’d o’er it to the sky; Where thou could’st sing of other spheres, And feel the fame of future years. Though bitter sneers and stinging scorns Did throng the Muse’s dangerous way, Thy powers were past such little thorns, They gave thee no dismay; The scoffer’s insult pass’d thee by, Thou smild’st and mad’st him no reply. Envy will gnaw its heart away To see thy genius gather root; And as its flowers their sweets display, Scorn’s malice shall be mute; Hornets that summer warmed to fly, Shall at the death of summer die. Though friendly praise hath but its hour, And little praise with thee hath been; The bay may lose its summer flower, But still its leaves are green; And thine, whose buds are on the shoot, Shall only fade to change to fruit.