Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/351

291 Frail, feeble Monthling!—by that name, methinks,

Thy scanty breathing-time is portioned out

Not idly.—Hadst thou been of Indian birth,

Couched on a casual bed of moss and leaves,

And rudely canopied by leafy boughs,

Or to the churlish elements exposed

On the blank plains,—the coldness of the night,

Or the night's darkness, or its cheerful face

Of beauty, by the changing Moon adorned,

Would, with imperious admonition, then

Have scored thine age, and punctually timed

Thine infant history, on the minds of those

Who might have wandered with thee.—Mother's love,

Nor less than Mother's love in other breasts,

Will, among us warm clad and warmly housed,

Do for thee what the finger of the heavens

Doth all too often harshly execute

for thy unblest Coevals, amid wilds

Where Fancy hath small liberty to grace

The affections, to exalt them or refine;

And the maternal sympathy itself,

Though strong, is, in the main, a joyless tie

Of naked instinct, wound about the heart.

Happier, far happier is thy lot and ours!