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IV.

II.

III.

The moon is full ; but her silver light
The storm dashes out with its wings to-night ; He has given the last faint jerk of the rein,
And over the sky from south to north

To rouse up his dying steed;
Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth

And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain In the strength of a mighty glee.

For help in his master's need.
For a while he strives with a wistful cry

To catch a glance from his drowsy eye,
All day had the snow come down, - all day And wags his tail if the rude winds flap
As it never came down before ;

The skirt of the buffalo over his lap, And over the hills, at sunset, lay

And whines when he takes no heed.
Some two or three feet, or more;

V.
The fence was lost, and the wall of stone;
The windows blocked and the well-curbs gone;

The wind goes down and the storm is o'er, -
The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, '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

Looks down on the hills with snow all white,
The night sets in on a world of snow,
While the air grows sharp and chill,

And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump,

The blasted pine and the ghostly stump,
And the warning roar of a fearful blow
Is heard on the distant hill;

Afar on the plain are cast.
And the norther, see ! on the mountain peak
In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek 1 But cold and dead by the hidden log

Are they who came from the town, -
He shouts on the plain, ho-ho! ho-ho !
He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow,

The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog,

And his beautiful Morgan brown,
And growls with a savage will.

In the wide snow-desert, far and grand,
With his cap on his head and the reins in his

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 floundered 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. And for hours he trod with might and main Now the east-wind diseases the infirm, A path for his horse and sleigh ;

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,

1, 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, She plunged in the drifting snow,

Through the white spaces of infinitude.
While her master urged, till his breath grew short, i

With a word and a gentle blow ;
But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight ;
His hands were numb and had lost their might;

FROM “HYMN ON THE SEASONS."
So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh,
And strove to shelter himself till day,

THESE, as they change, Almighty Father, these With his coat and the buffalo.

Are but the varied God. The rolling year

CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN.

DAVID GRAY.

Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring Soft roll your incense, herbs, and fruits, and Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love.

flowers, Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm ;| In mingled clouds to him, — whose sun exalts, Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles ; Whose breath perfumes you, and whose pencil And every sense and every heart is joy.

paints. Then comes thy glory in the summer months, Ye forests bend, ye harvests wave, to him; With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun Breathe your still song into the reaper's heart, Shoots full perfection through the swelling year; As home he goes beneath the joyous moon. And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks, Ye that keep watch in heaven, as earth asleep And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, Unconscious lies, effuse your mildest beams, By brooks and groves in hollow-whispering gales. Ye constellations, while your angels strike, Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined, Arnid the spangled sky, the silver lyre. And spreads a common feast for all that lives. Great source of day! best image here below In winter awful thou ! with clouds and storms of thy Creator, ever pouring wide, Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled, From world to world, the vital ocean round, Majestic darkness ! On the whirlwind's wing On Nature write with every beam his praise. Riding sublime, thou bid'st the world adore, The thunder rolls : be hushed the prostrate And humblest nature with thy northern blast.

world ; Mysterious round! what skill, what force divine, While cloud to cloud returns the solemn hymn. Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train, Bleat out afresh, ye hills ; ye mossy rocks, Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, Retain the sound ; the broad responsive low, Such beauty and beneficence combined ; Ye valleys, raise ; for the great Shepherd reigns, Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade ; And his unsuffering kingdom yet will come. And all so forming an harmonious whole, Ye woodlands all, awake: a boundless song That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. Burst from the groves ; and when the restless dag, But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, Expiring, lays the warbling world asleep, Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty hand, Sweetest of birds ! sweet Philomela, charm That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; The listening shades, and teach the night his Works in the secret deep; shoots, steaming, praise. thence

Ye chief, for whom the whole creation smiles, The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring ; At once the head, the heart, and tongue of all, Flings from the sun direct the flaming day ; Crown the great hymn ! in swarming cities vast, Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempest forth ; Assembled men to the deep organ join And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, The long-resounding voice, oft breaking clear, With transport touches all the springs of life. At solemn pauses, through the swelling bass ;

Nature, attend ! join every living soul, And, as each mingling flame increases each, Beneath the spacious temple of the sky, In one united ardor rise to heaven. In adoration join ; and, ardent, raise

Or if you rather choose the rural shaile, One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales, And find a fane in every sacred grove, Breathe soft, whose spirit in your freshness There let the shepherd's flute, the virgin's lay, breathes :

The prompting seraph, and the poet's lyre, 0, talk of him in solitary glooms !

Still sing the God of seasons as they roll. Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine For me, when I forget the darling theme, Fills the brown shade with a religious awe. Whether the blossom blows, the summer ray And ye whose bolder note is heard afar,

Russets the plain, inspiring Autumn gleams, Who shake the astonished world, lift high to Or winter rises in the blackening east, heaven

Be my tongue mute,- my fancy paint no more, The impetuous song, and say from whom you And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat ! rage.

Should fate command me to the farthest verge His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills ; of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes, And let me catch it as I muse along.

Rivers unknown to song,

- where first the sun Ye headlong torrents, rapid, and profound ; Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Ye softer floods, that lead the humid maze Flames on the Atlantic isles, – 't is naught to me: Along the vale ; and thou, majestic main, Since God is ever present, ever felt, A secret world of wonders in thyself,

In the void waste as in the city full ; Sound his stupendous praise, — whose greater And where he vital spreads there must be joy. voice

When even at last the solemn hour shall come, Or bids you roar, or bids your roarings fall. And wing my mystic flight to future worlds,

I cheerful will obey ; there, with new powers, The cock his crested helmet bent
Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go

And down his querulous challenge sent.
Where Universal Love not smiles around,
Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; Unwarmed by any sunset light
From seeming evil still educing good,

The gray day darkened into night,
And better thence again, and better still, A night made hoary with the swarm
In infinite progression. But I lose

And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
Myself in him, in light ineffable !

As zigzag wavering to and fro
Come, then, expressive Silence, muse his praise. | Crossed and recrossed the wingéd snow :

JAMES THOMSON. And ere the early bed-time came

The white drist 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;
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So be it when I shall grow old,

Or let me die !
The Child is father of the Man ;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

NEW ENGLAND IN WINTER.

So all night long the storm roared on:
The morning broke without a sun ;
In tiny spherule traced with lines
Of Nature's geometric signs,
In starry flake, and pellicle,
All day the hoary meteor fell ;
And, when the second morning shone,
We looked upon a world unknown,
On nothing we could call our own.
Around the glistening wonder bent
The blue walls of the firmament,
No cloud above, no earth below,
A universe of sky and snow !
The old familiar sights of ours
Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,
Or garden wall, or belt of wood ;
A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,
A fenceless drift what once was road ;
The bridle-post an old man sat
With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat ;
The well-curb had a Chinese roof;
And even the long sweep, high aloof,
In its slant splendor, seemed to tell
Of Pisa's leaning miracle.

FROM "SNOW-BOUND."

The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.
A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
A hard, dull bitterness of cold,

That checked, mid-vein, the circling race

Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
The coming of the snow-storm told.
The wind blew east : we heard the roar
Of Ocean on his wintry shore,
And felt the strong pulse throbbing there
Beat with low rhythm our inland air.
Meanwhile we did our nightly chores, –
Brought in the wood from out of doors,
Littered the stalls, and from the mows
Raked down the herd's-grass for the cows ;
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn ;
And, sharply clashing horn on horn,
Impatient down the stanchion rows
The cattle shake their walnut bows;
While, peering from his early perch
Upon the scaffold's pole of birch,

A prompt, decisive man, no breath
Our father wasted : “ Boys, a path !”
Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy
Count such a summons less than joy ?)
Our buskins on our feet we drew;

With mittened hands, and caps drawn low,

To guard our necks and ears from snow,
We cut the solid whiteness through.
And, where the drift was deepest, made
A tunnel walled and overlaid
With dazzling crystal : we had read
of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave,
And to our own his name we gave,
With many a wish the luck were ours
To test his lamp's supernal powers.
We reached the barn with merry din,
And roused the prisoned brutes within.
· The old horse thrust his long head out,

When fire outdoors burns merrily, There the witches are making tea."

And grave with wonder gazed about ;
The cock his lusty greeting said,
And forth his speckled harem led ;
The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked,
And mild reproach of hunger looked ;
The hornéd patriarch of the sheep,
Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep,
Shook his sage head with gesture mute,
And emphasized with stamp of foot.

The moon above the eastern wood
Shone at its full ; the hill-range stood
Transfigured in the silver flood,
Its blown snows flashing cold and keen,
Dead white, save where some sharp ravine
Took shadow, or the sombre green
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black
Against the whiteness at their back.
For such a world and such a night
Most fitting that unwarming light,
Which only seemed where'er it fell
To make the coldness visible.

All day the gusty north-wind bore
The loosening drift its breath before ;
Low circling round its southern zone,
The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone.
No church-bell lent its Christian tone
To the savage air, no social smoke
Curled over woods of snow-hung oak.
A solitude made more intense
By dreary-voicéd elements,
The shrieking of the mindless wind,
The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind,
And on the glass the unmeaning beat
Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet.
Beyond the circle of our hearth
No welcome sound of toil or mirth
Unbound the spell, and testified
Of human life and thought outside.
We minded that the sharpest ear
The buried brooklet could not hear,
The music of whose liquid lip
Had been to us companionship,
And, in our lonely life, had grown
To have an almost human tone.
As night drew on, and, from the crest
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west,
The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank
From sight beneath the smothering bank,
We piled, with care, our nightly stack
Of wood against the chimney-back,
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick,
And on its top the stout back-stick ;
The knotty forestick laid apart,
And filled between with curious art
The ragged brush ; then, hovering near,
We watched the first red blaze appear,
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam,
Until the old, rude-furnished room
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom ;
While radiant with a mimic flame
Outside the sparkling drift became,
And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree
Our own warın hearth seemed blazing free.
The crane and pendent trammels showed,
The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed ;
While childish fancy, prompt to tell
The meaning of the miracle,
Whispered the old rhyme :

Under the tree,

Shut in from all the world without,
We sat the clean-winged hearth about.
Content to let the north-wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost-line back with tropic heat;
And ever, when a louder blast
Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draught
The great throat of the chimney laughed,
The house-dog on his paws outspread
Laid to the fire his drowsy head,
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall
A couchant tiger's seerned to fall;
And, for the winter fireside meet,
Between the andirons' straddling feet,
The mug of cider simmered slow,
The apples sputtered in a row,
And, close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October's wood.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER

A DROP OF DEW.

SEE how the orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn

Into the blowing roses,

(Yet careless of its mansion new For the clear region where 't was born)

Round in itself encloses,

And in its little globe's extent Frames, as it can, its native element.

How it the purple flower does slight,

Scarce touching where it lies ;
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,

Like its own tear,
Because so long divided from the sphere ;

Restless it rolls, and unsecure,

Trembling, lest it grow impure ;
Till the warm sun pities its pain,

And to the skies exhales it back again.

So the soul, that drop, that ray,
Of the clear fountain of eternal day,
Could it within the human flower be seen,

Remembering still its former height,
Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green,

And, recollecting its own light,
Does, in its pure aud circling thoughts, express
The greater heaven in a heaven less.

In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away ;
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day.
Dark beneath, but bright above ;

Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go !
How girt and ready to ascend !
Moving but on a point below,

It all about does upwards bend.
Such did the manna's sacred dew distil,
White and entire, although congealed and chill, -
Congealed on earth, but does, dissolving, run
Into the glories of the Almighty sun.

Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets, Come hither, come hither, come hither •

Here shall he see

No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.
JAQUES. I'll give you a verse to this note,
that I made yesterday in despite of my invention.

AMIENS. And I'll sing it.
JAQ. Thus it goes :-

If it do come to pass,
That any man turn ass,
Leaving his wealth and ease,

A stubborn will to please,
Ducdame, ducdame, ducdame :

Here shall he see

Gross fools as he,
An if he will come to me.

AMI. What's that “ducdame" ?

JAQ. 'Tis a Greek invocation, to call fools into a circle. I'll go sleep, if I can ; if I cannot, I'll rail against all the first-born of Egypt.

ANDREW MARVELL

SHAKESPEARE

NATURE.

THE GREENWOOD.
The bubbling brook doth leap when I come by, O, WHEN 't is summer weather,
Because my feet find measure with its call ; And the yellow bee, with fairy sound,
The birds know when the friend they love is nigh, The waters clear is humming round,
For I am known to them, both great and small. And the cuckoo sings unseen,
The flower that on the lonely hillside grows And the leaves are waving green,
Expects me there when springits bloom has given;

0, then 't is sweet, And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows,

In some retreat,
And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven ; To hear the murmuring dove,
For he who with his Maker walks aright, With those whom on earth alone we love,
Shall be their lord as Adam was before ;

And to wind through the greenwood together.
His ear shall catch each sound with new delight,
Each object wear the dress that then it wore ;

But when 't is winter weather, And he, as when erect in soul he stood,

And crosses grieve,
Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.

And friends deceive,
JONES VERY.

And rain and sleet
The lattice beat,

0, then 't is sweet UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE.

To sit and sing
Of the friends with whom, in the days of spring,

We roamed through the greenwood together.
Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,

RETIREMENT.
Come hither, come hither, come hither :

Here shall he see

No enemy,
But winter and rough weather.

BENEATH this stony roof reclined,

I soothe to peace my pensive mind;
Who doth ambition shun,

And while, to shade my lowly cave,
And loves to live i' the sun,

Embowering elms their umbrage wave,

FROM

AS YOU LIKE IT."

WILLIAM LISLA BOWLES.

INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE.

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