EARTH has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This city now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning: silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky,— All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY WHEN I have borne in memory what has tamed Great nations; how ennobling thoughts depart, What men change swords for ledgers, and desert The student’s bower for gold,—some fears unnamed I had, my country!—am I to be blamed? Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, Verily, in the bottom of my heart Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. For dearly must we prize thee; we do find In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; And I by my affection was beguiled: What wonder if a Poet now and then, Among the many movements of his mind, Felt for thee as a lover or a child! THREE YEARS SHE GREW THREE years she grew in sun and shower; Then Nature said, ‘A lovelier flower On earth was never sown. This child I to myself will take: She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. ‘Myself will to my darling be Both law and impulse; and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. ‘She shall be sportive as the fawn, That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs; And hers shall be the breathing balm, And hers the silence and the calm Of mute insensate things. ‘The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend; Nor shall she fail to see Ev’n in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden’s form By silent sympathy. ‘The stars of midnight shall be dear To her, and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place, Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. ‘And vital feelings of delight Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell; Such thoughts to Lucy I will give While she and I together live Here in this happy dell.’ Thus Nature spake. The work was done— How soon my Lucy’s race was run! She died, and left to me This heath, this calm and quiet scene; The memory of what has been, And never more will be. THE DAFFODILS