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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.

CLOUGH.

SWIMMING.

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,

oft,

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.

BYRON.

SKATING,

- In the frosty season, when the

sun

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.

WORDSWORTH.

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

away.

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!

BURNS.

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

SNOW.

FLEET the Tartar's reinless steed, But fleeter far the pinions of the

wind, Which from Siberia's caves the mon:

arch freed,

once

And sent him forth, with squadrons

of his kind, And bade the snow their ample backs

bestride,

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!

WORDSWORTH.

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

dle waste,

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.

THOMSON.

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

drifty heap!”

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!

BURNS.

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

YEAR.

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 ?

E'en you

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

ly sighing:
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
And tread softly, and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.

Old year, you must not die;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,

Old year, you shall not die.
He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend, and a true

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

brim;

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.

BRYANT.

THE GARDEN.

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.
But though his eyes are waxing dim,
And though his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,

Old year, if you must die.
He was full of joke and jest;
But all his merry quips are o'er:
To see him die, across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-

haste;
But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own.
The night is starry and cold, my

friend,
And the New-year blithe and

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

low:
'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.

Shake hands, before you die.
Old year, we'll dearly rue for

you:
What is it we can do for you?

Speak out before you die.
His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone.
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.
There's a new foot on the floor,

my friend,
And a new face at the door, my

friend,
A new face at the door.

TENNYSON.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee

here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men.
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow:
Society is all but rude
To this delicious solitude.

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

found.

THE RIVULET.

AND I shall sleep; and on thy side,
As ages after ages glide,
Children their early sports shall try,
And pass to hoary age, and die.
But thou, unchanged from year to

year,
Gayly shalt play and glitter here:

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;

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