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Eying one moment the beauty, the
life, ere he flung himself in it, Eying through eddying green waters
the green tinting floor under
neath them, Eying the bead on the surface, the
bead, like a cloud, rising to it, Drinking in, deep in his soul, the
beautiful hue and the clear
ness, Arthur, the shapely, the brave, the
unboasting, the glory of
headers; Yes, and with fragrant weed, by his
knapsack, spectator and critic, Seated on slab by the margin, the Piper, the Cloud-compeller.
Piercing a wood, and skirting a
narrow and natural causeway Under the rocky wall that hedges
the bed of the streamlet, Rounded a craggy point, and saw on
a sudden before them Slabs of rock, and a tiny beach, and
perfection of water, Picture-like beauty, seclusion sub
lime, and the goddess of bath
ing. There they bathed, of course, and
Arthur, the glory of headers, Leapt from the ledges with Hope,
he twenty feet, he thirty; There, overbold, great Hobbes from
a ten-foot height descended, Prone, as a quadruped, prone with
hands and feet protending; There in the sparkling champagne,
ecstatic, they shrieked and
shouted. Hobbes's gutter," the Piper en
titles the spot, profanely, Hope “the Glory” would have,
after Arthur, the glory of
headers : But, for before they departed, in shy
and fugitive reflex Here in the eddies and there did
the splendor of Jupiter glim
mer, Adam adjudged it the name of
Hesperus, star of the even
ing. Hither, to Hesperus, now, the star
of evening above them, Come in their lonelier walk the pupils
twain and Tutor; Turned from the track of the carts,
and passing the stone and
shingle, Piercing the wood, and skirting the
stream by the natural cause
way, Rounded the craggy point, and now
at their ease looked up; and Lo, on the rocky ledge, regardant,
the Glory of headers, Lo, on the beach, expecting the
plunge, not cigarless, the
Piper. And they looked, and wondered, in
credulous, looking yet once
more. Yes, it was he, on the ledge, bare
limbed, an Apollo, down-gazing,
How many a time have I Cloven, with arm still lustier, breast
more daring, The wave all roughened; with a
swimmer's stroke Flinging the billows back from my
drenched hair, And laughing from my lip the auda
cious brine, Which kissed it like a wine-cup, ris
ing o'er The waves as they arose, and prouder
still The loftier they uplifted me; and In wantonness of spirit, plunging
down Into their green and glassy gulfs, and
making My way to shells and seaweed, all
Unseen By those above, till they waxed fear
ful; then Returning with my grasp full of such
tokens As showed that I had searched the
deep; exulting, With a far-dashing stroke, and draw
ing deep The long-suspended breath, again I
spurned The foam which broke around me,
and pursued My track like a sea-bird. - I was a boy then.
- In the frosty season, when the
Have I, reclining back upon my
heels, Stopp'd short; yet still the solitary
cliffs Wheel'd by me, even as if the earth
had rollid With visible motion her diurnal
round. Behind me did they stretch in sol
emn train, Feebler and feebler, and I stood and
watch'd Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.
WINTER. — A DIRGE.
Was set, and, visible for many a
mile, The cottage windows through the
twllight blazed, I heeded not the summons: happy
time It was indeed for all of us; for me It was a time of rapture. Clear and
loud The village clock tolled six. I
wheel'd about, Proud and exulting, like an untired
horse That cares not for its home. All
shod with steel, We hiss'd along the polish'd ice in
games Confederate, imitative of the chase And woodland pleasures, — the re
sounding horn, The pack loud-bellowing, and the
hunted hare. So through the darkness and the
cold we flew, And not a voice was idle: with the
din Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud; The leafless trees and every icy
crag Tingled like iron; while the distant
hills Into the tumult sent an alien sound Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while
the stars, Eastward, were sparkling clear, and
in the west The orange sky of evening died
The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw; Or the stormy north sends driving
forth The blinding sleet and snaw: While tumbling brown, the burn
comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest,
Aud pass the heartless day.
" The sweeping blast the sky o'er
cast, The joyless winter-day, Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May; The tempest's howl, it soothes my
soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!
Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty
scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,
Because they are thy will. Then all I want (oh, do thon grant
This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy thou dost deny, Assist me to resign!
Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively Glanced sideway, leaving the tumult
uous throng, To cut across the image of a star That gleam'd upon the ice; and
oftentimes, When we had given our bodies to
the wind, And all the shadowy banks on either
side Came sweeping through the dark
ness, spinning still The rapid line of motion, then at
FLEET the Tartar's reinless steed, But fleeter far the pinions of the
wind, Which from Siberia's caves the mon:
And sent him forth, with squadrons
of his kind, And bade the snow their ample backs
And to the battle ride: No pitying voice cominands a halt, No courage can repel the dire as
sault: Distracted, spiritless, benumbed, and
blind, Whole legions siuk, and, in an in
stant, find Burial and death: look for them,
and descry, When morn returns, beneath the
clear blue sky, A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy!
LOST IN THE SNOW.
THE Snows arise; and, foul and
fierce, All winter drives along the darkened
air: In his own loose-revolving fields the
swain Disastered stands; sees other hills
ascend, Of unknown joyless brow; and other
scenes, Of horrid prospect, shag the track
less plain : Nor finds the river, nor the forest,
hid Beneath the formless wild, but wan
ders on From hill to dale, still more and
more astray: Impatient flouncing through the
drifted heaps, Stung with the thoughts of home;
the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their
vigor forth In many a vain attempt. How sinks
his soul! What black despair, what horror, fills
his heart! When, for the dusky spot which fan
cy feigned His tufted cottage rising through the
snow, He meets the roughness of the mid
Far from the track, and bless'd abode
of man; While round him night resistless
closes fast, And every tempest, howling o'er his
head, Renders the savage wilderness more
wild. Then throng the busy shapes into
his mind, Of covered pits unfathomably
deep, A dire descent! beyond the power
of frost; Of faithless bogs; of precipices
huge, Smoothed up with snow; and what
is land unknown, What water, of the still unfrozen
spring, In the loose marsh or solitary lake, Where the fresh fountain from the
bottom boils. These check his fearful steps; and
down he sinks Beneath the shelter of the shapeless
drift, Thinking o'er all the bitterness of
death; Mixed with the tender anguish Na
ture shoots Through the wrung bosom of the
dying man, His wife, his children, and his friends
unseen, In vain for him th’officious wife pre
pares The fire fair-blazing, and the vest
ment warm; In vain his little children, peeping
out Into the mingling storm, demand
their sire, With tears of artless innocence.
Alas! Nor wife, nor children, more shall he
behold; Nor friends, nor sacred home. On
every nerve The deadly Winter seizes; shuts up
sense, And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping
cold, Lays him along the snows a stiffened
corse, Stretched out, and bleaching in the northern blast.
A WINTER NIGHT.
When biting Boreas, fell and doure, Sharp shivers thro' the leafless
bow'r; When Phæbus gies a short-liv'd glow'r
Far south the lift, Dim dark’ning thro' the flaky show'r,
Or whirlin' drift:
“O ye! who, sunk in beds of
down, Feel not a want but what yourselves
create, Think for a moment on his wretched
fate, Whom friends and fortune quite
disown! Ill satisfied keen Nature's clamorous
call, Stretched on his straw, he lays
himself to sleep, While thro' the ragged roof and
chinky wall, Chill o'er his slumbers piles the
Ae night the storm the steeples
rocked, Poor labor sweet in sleep was
locked, While burns, wi' snawy wreaths upchocked,
Wild-eddying swirl, Or thro' the mining outlet bocked,
Down headlong hurl.
I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw, And hailed the morning with a
cheer, A cottage-rousing craw!
Listening, the doors an' winnocks
rattle. I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
O' winter war, And thro' the drift, deep-lairing sprattle
Beneath a scar.
THE DEATH OF THE OLD
Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, That, in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing,
What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chitt'ring wing,
An' close thy e'e ?
on murd'ring errands toil'd, Lone from your savage homes ex
iled, The blood-stained roost, and sheepcote spoiled,
My heart forgets, While pitiless the tempest wild
Sore on you beats.
FULL knee-deep lies the winter
snow, And the winter winds are weari
Old year, you must not die;
Old year, you shall not die.
true-love, And the New-year will take 'ein
away. Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with
us, Such joy as you have seen with
us, Old year, you shall not go. He frothed his bumpers to the
Now Phobe, in her midnight reign, Dark muffled, viewed the dreary
plain; Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train,
Rose in my soul, While on my ear this plaintive strain,
Slow, solemn, stole:
Amid young flowers and tender
grass Thy endless infancy shalt
pass; And, singing down thy narrow glen, Shalt mock the fading race of men.
How vainly men themselves amaze, To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labors see Crowned from some single herb or
tree, Whose short and narrow-vergèd
shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do
close, To weave the garlands of repose!
A jollier year we shall not see.
Old year, you shall not die;
Old year, if you must die.
Every one for his own.
bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own. How hard he breathes! over the
show I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro; The cricket chirps; the light burns
Shake hands, before you die.
Speak out before you die.
And waiteth at the door.
Fair Quiet, have I found thee
No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress'
name: Little, alas! they know or heed How far these beauties her exceed! Fair trees! where'er your barks I
wound, No name shall but your own be
AND I shall sleep; and on thy side,
When we have run our passion's
heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, who mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race; Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed.
What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine;