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That stoops to smooth a glossy spaniel down,
To hide her flushing cheek from one who talks.

A happy mother with her fair-faced girls,

In whose sweet Spring again her youth she sees, With shout and dance, and laugh and bound and song, Stripping an Autumn orchard's laden trees.

An aged woman in a wintry room

Frost on the pane, without the whirling snow-
Reading old letters of her far-off youth,

Of sorrows past and joys of long ago.

N. C. BENNET.

A WINTER SONG.

When icicles hang by the wall,

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

And milk comes frozen home in pail ;
When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whoo;

Tu-whit, to-whoo, 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 Marian's nose looks red and raw;
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,

To-whoo;

Tu-whit, to-whoo, a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

THE THRUSH.

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough;
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain;
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign,
At thy blithe carol cheers his furrowed brow.

SHAKSPEARE.

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear

Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid movements, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day!

Thou whose bright sun now gilds the Orient skies!

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys,

What wealth could never give nor take away!

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care;

The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share.

ROBERT BURNS, 1750-1796.

SONNET.

Sheath'd is the river as it glideth by,
Frost-pearl'd are all the boughs in forests old,
The sheep are huddling close upon the wold,
And over them the stars tremble on high.
Pure joys, these winter nights, around me lie;
"Tis fine to loiter through the lighted streets
At Christmas time, and guess from brow and pace
The doom and history of each one we meet;
What kind of heart beats in each dusky case;
Whiles startled by the beauty of a face
In a shop-light a moment; or, instead,
To dream of silent fields, where calm and deep
The sunshine lieth like a golden sleep-
Recalling sweetest looks of summers dead.

ALEXANDER SMITH.

SPRING AND WINTER.

FROM THE FRENCH.

Gentle Spring, in sunshine clad,

Well dost thou thy power display!

For Winter maketh the light heart sad,

And thou-thou makest the sad heart gay.

He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,

The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain;
And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,
When thy merry step draws near!

Winter giveth the fields and the trees so old
Their beards of icicles and snow;

And the rain it raineth so fast and cold,

We must cover over the embers low;

And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,
When thy merry step draws near!

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky

Wrap him 'round with a mantle of cloud;
But, Heaven be praised! thy step is nigh;

Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,
And the Earth looks bright, and Winter surly,
Who has toiled for naught, both late and early,
Is banished afar by the new-born year,

When thy merry step draws near!

Translation by H. W. LONGFELLOW.

CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS, 1391-1467.

WOODS IN WINTER.

When winter winds are piercing chill,

And through the hawthorn blows the gale,

With solemn feet I tread the hill

That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away

Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden those deep solitudes

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the silence broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.

Where from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide,

Shrilly the skater's iron rings,

And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day.

But still wild music is abroad,

Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds in hoarse accord

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs, and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year—

I listen, and it cheers me long.

H. W. LONGfellow.

WINTER.

Sad soul-dear heart, O why repine?
The melancholy tale is plain;

The leaves of spring, the summer flowers
Have bloomed and died again.

The sweet and silver-sandaled Dew,

Which, like a maiden, fed the flowers, Hath waned into the beldame Frost, And walked amid our bowers.

Some buds there were-sad hearts, be still!
Which looked awhile unto the sky,
Then breathed but once or lived, to tell

How sweetest things may die!

And some must blight where many bloom;

But, blight or bloom, the fruit must fall!
Why sigh for spring or summer flowers,
Since winter gathers all?

He gathers all-but chide him not;
He wraps them in his mantle cold,
And folds them close, as best he can,
For he is blind and old.

Sad soul-dear heart, no more repine-
The tale is beautiful and plain :
Surely as winter taketh all,

The spring shall bring again.

T. B. READ.

XXVIII.

Medley.

FRAGMENT FROM THE GREEK OF ARISTOTLE.

there were beings who lived in the depths of the earth, in dwell

adorned with statues and paintings, and every thing which is

possessed in rich abundance by those whom we esteem fortunate; and if these beings could receive tidings of the power and might of the gods, and could then emerge from their hidden dwellings through the open fissures of the earth, to the places which we inhabit; if they could suddenly behold the earth, and the sea, and the vault of heaven; could recognize the expanse of the cloudy firmament, and the might of the winds of heaven, and admire the sun in its majesty, beauty, and radiant effulgence; and, lastly, when night vailed the earth in darkness, they could behold the starry heavens, the changing moon, and the stars rising and setting in the unvarying course ordained from eternity, they would surely exclaim, There are gods, and such great things must be the work of their hands."

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Translation from HUMBOLDT's "Cosmos."

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