And of his true heart and his musket,
He and his bonny bride will busk it.
His doubt is but a doubt of pleasure,
To see his mistress take her leisure;
Or, if of graver modesty,

'Tis but a gallant heart's; for see!
His hand's already at her side,
Ready to clasp with joy and pride.
He reads her smile, he reads his bliss,
With those love-swimming eyes of his ;
And thinks of those most rosy hours,
When lips will supersede the flowers.

LEIGH HUNT.

THE MOURNER.

HALF unbelieving doth my heart remain of its great woe;

I waken, and a dull dead sense of pain is all I know.

Then dimly in the darkness of my mind I feel

about,

To know what 'tis that troubles me, and find my sorrow out.

THE MOURNER.

189

And hardly with long pains my heart I bring

Its loss to own:

Still seems it so impossible a thing
That thou art gone-

That not in all my life I evermore,
With pleased ear,

Thy quick light feet advancing to my door
Again shall hear—

That thou not ever with inquiring looks
Or subtle talk

Shalt bring to me sweet hinderance 'mid my books

Or studious walk

That whatsoever else of good for me
In store remain,

This lieth out of hope, my child, to see
Thy face again.

ANON.

A MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR.

YES, the Year is growing old,

And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling,
Solemnly and slow;

"Caw! caw!" the rooks are calling,

It is a sound of woe!

A sound of woe!

Through woods and mountain-passes
The winds, like anthems, roll!
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing, "Pray for this poor soul,
Pray,-pray!"

And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers;—
But their prayers are all in vain,
All in vain!

A MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR. 191 There he stands in the foul weather,

The foolish, fond Old Year,

Crowned with wild flowers and with heather, Like weak, despised Lear,

A king,-a king!

Then comes the summer-like day,
Bids the old man rejoice!

His joy! his last! O, the old man gray,
Loveth that ever-soft voice,
Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he sayeth,-
To the voice gentle and low

Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,-
"Pray do not mock me so!
Do not laugh at me!"

And now the sweet day is dead;
Cold in his arms it lies;

No stain from its breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,

No mist or stain!

Then, too, the Old Year dieth,
And the forests utter a moan,
Like the voice of one who crieth
In the wilderness alone,

"Vex not his ghost!"

Then comes,

with an awful roar,

Gathering and sounding on,

The storm-wind from Labrador,
The wind Euroclydon,

The storm-wind!

Howl! howl! and from the forest
Sweep the red leaves away!
Would the sins that thou abhorrest,
O soul! could thus decay,
And be swept away!

For there shall come a mightier blast,
There shall be a darker day;

And the stars from heaven down-cast,
Like red leaves be swept away!

Kyrie, eleyson!

Christe, eleyson!

LONGFELLOW.

TO AN EOLIAN HARP.

OH! breezy harp! that with thy fond complaining,

Hast held my willing ear this whole night long: Mourning, as one might deem, yon moon, slow waning,

Sole listener oft of thy melodious song.