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THOMAS HOOD

Have the broad eyelids of the morn beheld thee ?

The night has no eve, Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion

And the day has no morning; Support thy throne ? O, look with pity down

Cold winter gives warning. On erring, guilty man ; not in thy names

The rivers run chill ; Of terror clad ; not with those thunders armed

The red sun is sinking; That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appalled

And I am grown old, The scattered tribes ; thou hast a gentler voice,

And life is fast shrinking;
That whispers comfort to the swelling heart,

Here's enow for sad thinking!
Abashed, yet longing to behold her Maker!
But now my soul, unused to stretch her powers
In flight so daring, drops her weary wing,
And seeks again the known accustomed spot,

AUTUMN.
Drest up with sun and shade and lawns and
streams,

The warm sun is failing ; the bleak wind is A mansion fair and spacious for its guests,

wailing; And all replete with wonders. Let me here,

The bare boughs are sighing; the pale flowers Content and grateful, wait the appointed time,

are dying;

And the Year
And ripen for the skies : the hour will come
When all these splendors bursting on my sight

On the earth, her death-bed, in shroud of leaves Shall stand unveiled, and to my ravished sense

dead, Unlock the glories of the world unknown.

Is lying
ANNA LATITIA BARBAULD.

Come, months, come away,
From November to May;
In your saddest array

Follow the bier
THE LATTER RAIN.

Of the dead, cold Year,

And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. The latter rain, it falls in anxious haste Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, The chill rain is falling; the nipt worm is Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste

crawling; As if it would each root's lost strength repair ; The rivers are swelling; the thunder is knelling But not a blade grows green as in the spring ;

For the year ; No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards The robins only mid the harvests sing, Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves ;

To his dwelling; The rain falls still, – the fruit all ripened drops,

Come, months, come away ; It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut-shell ;

Put on white, black, and gray; The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops ;

Let your light sisters play, Each bursting pod of talents used can tell ;

Ye, follow the bier And all that once received the early rain

of the dead, cold Year, Declare to man it was not sent in vain.

And make her grave green with tear on tear. JONES VERY.

each gone

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

AUTUMN.

INDIAN SUMMER.

The autumn is old ;
The sear leaves are flying ;
He hath gathered up gold,
And now he is dying :
Old age, begin sighing !
The vintage is ripe ;
The harvest is heaping ;
But some that have sowed
Have no riches for reaping :-
Poor wretch, fall a-weeping !
The year 's in the wane ;
There is nothing adorning ;

FROM gold to gray

Our mild sweet day
Of Indian summer fades too soon;

But tenderly

Above the sea
Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon.

In its pale fire,

The village spire
Shows like the zodiac's spectral lance ;

The painted walls

Whereon it falls
Transfigured stand in marble trance !

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

ANONYMOUS.

No sun

INDIAN. SUMMER.

So shall the truant bluebirds backward fly,

And all loved things that vanish or that die When leaves grow sear all things take sombre hue ; Return to us in some sweet By-and-By ! The wild winds waltz no inore the woodside

through,
And all the faded grass is wet with dew.

NO!
A gauzy nebula films the pensive sky,
The golden bee supinely buzzes by,

no moon ! In silent flocks the bluebirds southward fly.

No morn -- no noon
No dawn

no dust The forests' cheeks are crimsoned o'er with shame,

— no proper time of day

No sky — no earthly view The cynic frost enlaces every lane,

No distance looking blue — The ground with scarlet blushes is aflame !

No road - no street no“ t'other side the The one we love grows lustrous-eyed and sad,

way" – With sympathy too thoughtful to be glad,

No end to any Row – While all the colors round are running mad.

No indications where the Crescents go

No top to any steeple The sunbeams kiss askant the sombre hill,

No recognitions of familiar people — The naked woodbine climbs the window-sill,

No courtesies for showing 'em -
The breaths that noon exhales are faint and chill.

No knowing 'em !
No travelling at all -

- no locomotion, The ripened nuts drop downward day by day,

No inkling of the way

no notionSounding the hollow tocsin of decay,

No go” — by land or ocean — And bandit squirrels smuggle them away.

No mail - no postVague sighs and scents pervade the atmosphere,

No news from any foreign coast. Sounds of invisible stirrings hum the ear,

No park — no ring — no afternoon gentility

No company The morning's lash reveals a frozen tear.

- no nobility

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, The hermit mountains gird themselves with mail, No comfortable feel in any memberMocking the threshers with an echo flail, No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, The while the afternoons grow crisp and pale.

No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,

November!
Inconstant Summer to the tropics flees,
And, as her rose-sails catch the amorous breeze,
Lo ! bare, brown Autumn trembles to her knees !

WINTER SONG.
The stealthy nights encroach upon the days,
The earth with sudden whiteness is ablaze,

SUMMER joys are o'er ;
And all her paths are lost in crystal maze !

Flowerets bloom no more,

Wintry winds are sweeping; Tread lightly where the dainty violets blew,

Through the snow-drifts peeping, Where the spring winds their soft eyes open flew;

Cheerful evergreen Safely they sleep the churlish winter through.

Rarely now is seen. Though all life's portals are indiced with woe,

Now no plumed throng And frozen pearls are all the world can show,

Charms the wood with song ; Feel ! Nature's breath is warm beneath the snow.

Ice-bound trees are glittering;

Merry snow-birds, twittering, Look up ! dear mourners ! Still the blue expanse,

Fondly strive to cheer Serenely tender, bends to catch thy glance,

Scenes so cold and drear. Within thy tears sibyllic sunbeams dance !

Winter, still I see With blooms full-sappedagain will smile the land.

Many charms in thee, The fall is but the folding of His hand,

Love thy chilly greeting, Anon with fuller glories to expand.

Snow-storms fiercely beating,

And the dear delights The dumb heart hid beneath the pulseless tree

Of the long, long nights. Will throb again; and then the torpid bee

LUDWIG HÖLTY (German). Translation of Upon the ear will drone his drowsy glee.

THOMAS Hooo.

CHARLES T. BROOKS.

FROM

THE WINTER MORNING WALK."

me,

WINTER.

Come trooping at the housewife's well-known call
The feathered tribes domestic. Half on wing,

And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood,
'T is morning; and the sun, with ruddy orb Conscious and fearful of too deep a plunge.
Ascending, fires the horizon ; while the clouds, The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves
That crowd away before the driving wind, To seize the fair occasion. Well they eye
More ardent as the disk emerges more,

The scattered grain, and thievishly resolved Resemble most some city in a blaze,

To escape the impending famine, often scared Seen through the leasless wood. His slanting ray As oft return, a pert voracious kind. Slides ineffectual down the snowy vale,

Clean riddance quickly made, one only care And, tingeing all with his own rosy hue, Remains to each, the search of sunny nook, From every herb and every spiry blade

Or shed impervious to the blast. Resigned Stretches a length of shadow o'er the field. To sad necessity, the cock foregoes Mine, spindling into longitude immense, His wonted strut, and, wading at their head In spite of gravity, and sage remark

With well-considered steps, seems to resent That I myself am but a fleeting shade,

His altered gait and stateliness retrenched. Provokes me to a smile. With eye askance How find the myriads, that in summer cheer I view the muscular proportioned limb

The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs, Transformed to a lean shank. The shapeless pair, Due sustenance, or where subsist they now? As they designed to mock

at my side

Earth yields them naught; the imprisoned worm Take step for step ; and, as I near approach

is safe The cottage, walk along the plastered wall, Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs Preposterous sight! the legs without the man. Lie covered close ; and berry-bearing thorns, The verdure of the plain lies buried deep That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose), Beneath the dazzling deluge; and the bents, Afford the smaller minstrels no supply. And coarser grass, upspearing o'er the rest, The long protracted rigor of the year Of late unsightly and unseen, now shine

Thins all their numerous flocks. In chinks and Conspicuous, and in bright apparel clad,

holes And, fledged with icy feathers, nod superb. Ten thousand seek an unmolested end, The cattle mourn in corners, where the fence As instinct prompts; self-buried ere they die. Screens them, and seem half petrified to sleep In unrecumbent sadness. There they wait Their wonted fodder ; not, like hungering man,

WINTER WALK AT NOON. Fretful if unsupplied ; but silent, meek, And, patient of the slow-paced swain's delay. The night was winter in his roughest mood, He from the stack carves out the accustomed load, The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon Deep plunging, and again deep plunging oft, Upon the southern side of the slant hills, His broad keen knife into the solid mass : And where the woods fence off the northern blast, Smooth as a wall the upright remnant stands, The season smiles, resigning all its rage, With such undeviating and even force

And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue He severs it away : no needless care

Without a cloud, and white without a speck Lest storms should overset the leaning pile The dazzling splendor of the scene below. Deciduous, or its own unbalanced weight.

Again the harinony comes o'er the vale ; Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned And through the trees I view the embattled tower, The cheerful haunts of men, to wield the axe Whence all the music. I again perceive And drive the wedge in yonder forest drear, The soothing influence of the wafted strains, From morn to eve his solitary task.

And settle in soft musings as I tread Shaggy and lean and shrewd with pointed ears, The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms, And tail cropped short, half lurcher and half cur, Whose outspread branches overarch the glade. His dog attends him. Close behind his heel Now creeps he slow; and now, with many a frisk No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. Wide-scampering, snatches up the drifted snow The redbreast warbles still, but is content With ivory teeth, or ploughs it with his snout; With slender notes, and more than half supThen shakes his powdered coat, and barks for joy. pressed :

Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light Now from the roost, or from the neighboring pale, From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes Where, diligent to catch the first faint gleam From many a twig the pendent drops of ice, Of smiling day, they gossiped side by side, That tinkle in the withered leaves below.

WILLIAM COWPER.

WILLIAM COW PER.

SHAKESPEARE

Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,

WHEN ICICLES HANG BY THE WALL. Charms more than silence. Meditation here May think down hours to moments. Here the

FROM "LOVE'S LABOR 'S LOST." heart May give a useful lesson to the head,

When icicles hang by the wall, And Learning wiser grow without his books.

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipped, and ways be foul,

Then nightly sings the staring owl,
WINTER SCENES.

To-who;

To-whit, to-who, a merry note,
The keener tempests rise : and fuming dun
From all the livid east, or piercing north,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
Thick clouds ascend ; in whose capacious womb

When all aloud the wind doth blow,
A vapory deluge lies, to snow congealed.
Heavy they roll their fleecy world along ;

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,

And birds sit brooding in the snow, And the sky saddens with the gathered storm.

And Marian's nose looks red and raw, Through the hushed air the whitening shower

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, descends At first thin wavering ; till at last the flakes

Then nightly sings the staring owl,

To-who ;
Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day
With a continual flow. The cherished fields

To-whit, to-who, a merry note,
Put on their winter robe of purest white.

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 'T is brightness all ; save where the new snow

melts Along the mazy current. Low the woods Bow their hoar head ; and, ere the languid sun

THE SNOW-STORM.
Faint from the west emits his evening ray,
Earth's universal face, deep hid and chill, ANNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky,
Is one wide dazzling waste, that buries wide Arrives the snow; and, driving o'er the fields,
The works of man. Drooping, the laborer-ox Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air
Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.
Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates
Which Providence assigns them. One alone,

sit
The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky, In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves Come see the north-wind's masonry.
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man Out of an unseen quarry, evermore
His annual visit. Half afraid, he first

Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Against the window beats ; then, brisk, alights Curves his white bastions with projected roof On the warm hearth ; then, hopping o'er the Round every windward stake or tree or door ; floor,

Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work Eyes all the smiling family askance,

So fanciful, so savage ; naught cares he And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is : For number or proportion. Mockingly, Till, more familiar grown, the table-crumbs On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ; Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Though timorous of heart, and hard beset Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate By death in various forms, dark snares, and dogs, | A tapering turret overtops the work. And more unpitying man, the garden seeks, And when his hours are numbered, and the world Urged on hy fearless Want. The bleating kind is all his own, retiring as he were not, Eye the bleak heaven, and next the glistening Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art earth,

To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dispersed, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, Dig for the withered herb through heaps of snow. The frolic architecture of the snow.

JAMES THOMSON.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

RALPH HOYT.

THE SNOW-SHOWER.

But the hurrying host that flew between

The cloud and the water no more is seen; Stand here by my side and turn, I pray,

Flake after flake On the lake below thy gentle eyes ;

At rest in the dark and silent lake. The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray,

WILLIAH CULLEN BRYANT. And dark and silent the water lies ; And out of that frozen mist the snow In wavering flakes begins to flow;

SNOW. - A WINTER SKETCH. Flake after flake They sink in the dark and silent lake.

The blessed morn has come again ;

The early gray
See how in a living swarm they come
From the chambers beyond that misty veil ;

Taps at the slumberer's window-pane,

And seems to say, Some hover awhile in air, and some

Break, break from the enchanter's chain, Rush prone from the sky like summer hail.

Away, away!
All, dropping swiftly or settling slow,
Meet, and are still in the depths below;

'T is winter, yet there is no sound
Flake after flake

Along the air Dissolved in the dark and silent lake.

Of winds along their battle-ground; Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud,

But gently there Come floating downward in airy play,

The snow is falling, — all around
Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd

How fair, how fair !
That whiten by night the Milky Way ;
There broader and burlier masses fall;
The sullen water buries them all,
Flake after flake,

SNOW-FLAKES.
All drowned in the dark and silent lake.

Out of the bosom of the Air, And some, as on tender wings they glide

Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken, From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Are joined in their fall, and, side by side,

Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Come clinging along their unsteady way ;

Silent and soft and slow
As friend with friend, or husband with wife,

Descends the snow.
Makes hand in hand the passage of life ;
Each mated flake

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake.

Suddenly shape in some divine expression,

Even as the troubled heart doth make Lo ! while we are gazing, in swifter haste

In the white countenance confession, Stream down the snows, till the air is white,

The troubled sky reveals As, myriads by myriads madly chased,

The grief it feels. They fling themselves from their shadowy height.

This is the poem of the air,
The fair, frail creatures of middle sky,

Slowly in silent syllables recorded ;
What speed they make, with their grave so nigh; This is the secret of despair,
Flake after flake

Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
To lie in the dark and silent lake!

Now whispered and revealed
I see in thy gentle eyes a tear ;

To wood and field.
They turn me in sorrowful thought;
Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear,

Who were for a time, and now are not ;
Like these fair children of cloud and frost,

A SNOW-STORM. That glisten a moment and then are lost,

Flake after flake, All lost in the dark and silent lake. Yet look again, for the clouds divide ;

'T is a fearful night in the winter time, A gleam of blue on the water lies ;

As cold as it ever can be ; And far away, on the mountain-side,

The roar of the blast is heard like the chime A sunbeam falls from the opening skies.

Of the waves on an angry sea.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

SCENE IN A VERMONT WINTER

I.

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