Thou fragile, filmy, gossamery thing, First leaf of spring! At every lightest breath that quakest, And with a zephyr shakest; Scarce stout enough to hold thy slender form together, In calmest halcyon weather; Next sister to the web that spiders weave, Poor flutterers to deceive Into their treacherous silken bed: O! how art thou sustained, how nourishèd! All trivial as thou art, Without dispute, Thou play'st a mighty part; And art the herald to a throng Of buds, blooms, fruit, That shall thy cracking branches sway, While birds on every spray Shall pay the copious fruitage with a sylvan song. So 'tis with thee, whoe'er on thee shall look, First leaf of this beginning modest book. Slender thou art, God knowest, And little grace bestowest, But in thy train shall follow after, Wit, wisdom, seriousness, in hand with laughter; Provoking jests, restraining soberness, In their appropriate dress; And I shall joy to be outdone By those who brighter trophies won; Without a grief, That I thy slender promise have begun, First leaf. 1832. TO MRS. F[IELD] _On Her Return from Gibraltar_ Jane, you are welcome from the barren Rock, And Calpe's sounding shores. Oh do not mock, Now you have rais'd, our greetings; nor again Ever revisit that dry nook of Spain. Friends have you here, and friendships to command, In merry England. Love this hearty land. Ease, comfort, competence--of these possess'd, Let prodigal adventurers seek the rest: Dear England is _as you_,--a _Field_ the Lord hath blest. TO M[ARY] L[AETITIA] F[IELD] (_Expecting to See Her Again after a Long Interval_) How many wasting, many wasted years, Have run their round, since I beheld your face! In Memory's dim eye it yet appears Crowned, as it _then_ seemed, with a chearful grace. Young prattling Maiden, on the Thames' fair side, Enlivening pleasant Sunbury with your smiles, Time may have changed you: coy reserve, or pride, To sullen looks reduced those mirthful wiles. I will not 'bate one smile on that clear brow, But take of Time a rigorous account, When next I see you; and Maria now Must _be_ the Thing she _was_. To what amount These verses else?--all hollow and untrue-- This was not writ, these lines not meant, for YOU. TO ESTHER FIELD