« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
WILLIAM COW PER.
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,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit, to-who, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
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-whit, to-who, a merry note,
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
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.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
STAND here by my side and turn, I pray,
See how in a living swarm they come
From the chambers beyond that misty veil; Some hover awhile in air, and some
Rush prone from the sky like summer hail. All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, Meet, and are still in the depths below; Flake after flake Dissolved in the dark and silent lake.
Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud,
Come clinging along their unsteady way ;
Stream down the snows, till the air is white, As, myriads by myriads madly chased,
They fling themselves from their shadowy height.
But the hurrying host that flew between The cloud and the water no more is seen; Flake after flake
Yet look again, for the clouds divide ;
A sunbeam falls from the opening skies.
The fair, frail creatures of middle sky,
Flake after flake
Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
SCENE IN A VERMONT WINTER
'T Is a fearful night in the winter time, As cold as it ever can be ;
The roar of the blast is heard like the chime Of the waves on an angry sea.
The moon is full ; but her silver light
To rouse up his dying steed;
For help in his master's need.
To catch a glance from his drowsy eye,
The skirt of the buffalo over his lap,
And whines when he takes no heed.
The wind goes down and the storm is o'er,
"T is the hour of midnight, past; And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift,
The old trees writhe and bend no more As it lay by the farmer's door.
In the whirl of the rushing blast.
The silent moon with her peaceful light The night sets in on a world of snow,
Looks down on the hills with snow all white, While the air grows sharp and chill,
And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump,
The blasted pine and the ghostly stump,
Afar on the plain are cast.
But cold and dead by the hidden log
Are they who came from the town,
The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog,
And his beautiful Morgan brown,
In the wide snow-desert, far and grand,
hand, Such a night as this to be found abroad,
The dog with his nose on his master's feet, In the drifts and the freezing air,
And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, Sits a shivering dog, in the field, by the road,
Where she lay when she flounderell down. With the snow in his shaggy hair. He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls ; He lifts his head, and moans and howls ; Then crouching low, from the cutting sleet, His nose is pressed on his quivering feet,
O WINTER, WILT THOU NEVER GOI Pray, what does the dog do there?
O WINTER ! wilt thou never, never go?
O summer! but I weary for thy coming, A farmer came from the village plain,
Longing once more to hear the Luggie flow, But he lost the travelled way ;
And frugal bees, laboriously humming.
Now the east-wind diseases the infirm,
And must crouch in corners from rough weather; But colder still the cold winds blew,
Sometimes a winter sunset is a charm, And deeper still the deep drifts grew,
When the fired clouds, compacted, blaze together, And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown,
And the large sun dips red behind the hills. At last in her struggles floundered down,
I, from my window, can behold this pleasure ; Where a log in a hollow lay.
And the eternal moon what time she fills
Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure, In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort,
With queenly motions of a bridal mood,
Through the white spaces of infinitude.
With a word and a gentle blow ;
FROM "HYMN ON THE SEASONS."
THESE, as they change, Almighty Father, these With his coat and the buffalo.
Are but the varied God. The rolling year
CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAX.
Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring
His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills;
Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall.
Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and flowers,
Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to him;
While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn.
Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles,
The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear,
O, talk of him in solitary glooms!
Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine
Who shake the astonished world, lift high to Or winter rises in the blackening east,
The impetuous song, and say from whom you
Be my tongue mute,- my fancy paint no more,
Should fate command me to the farthest verge
Or if you rather choose the rural shade,
I cheerful will obey ; there, with new powers, The cock his crested helmet bent
And down his querulous challenge sent.
The gray day darkened into night,
night made hoary with the swarm In infinite progression. But I lose
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag wavering to and fro
JAMES THOMSON, And ere the carly bed-time came
The white drift piled the window-frame,
And through the glass the clothes-line posts THE RAINBOW.
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Or let me die!
NEW ENGLAND IN WINTER.
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
So all night long the storm roared on :
Meanwhile we did our nightly chores,
A prompt, decisive man, no breath
With mittened hands, anıl caps drawn low,
To guard our necks and ears from snow,