Ah! thou would'st pause awhile in gentle Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed Come see the north wind's masonry. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring as he were not, To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. WINTER SONG. SUMMER joys are o 'er; Flowerets bloom no more, Now no plumed throng Winter, still I see Many charms in thee- And the dear delights LUDWIG HOLTY, (German.) Translation of C. T. BROOKS. SONNET TO A BIRD THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS OF LAAKEN IN THE WINTER. O MELANCHOLY bird, a winter's day Thou standest by the margin of the pool, And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school To patience, which all evil can allay. And given thyself a lesson to the fool chair, Though these be good, true wisdom to impart : He who has not enough for these to spare, SWEET bird! that sing'st away the early hours Of winters past or coming, void of care. To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick which by thy songs (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, And lift a reverend eye and thought to Heaven! Sweet, artless songster! thou my mind dost raise To airs of spheres-yes, and to angels' lays. WILLIAM DRUMMOND. AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. THE day is ending The river dead. Through clouds like ashes The snow recommences; Mark no longer The road o'er the plain; While through the meadows, A funeral train. The bell is pealing, To the dismal knell; Like a funeral bell. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. A SONG FOR THE SEASONS. With his song the summer hours, Then, how merry are the times! Now, from off the ashy stone And our dream of pleasure dieth; Now, how solemn are the times! Yet, be merry: all around Is through one vast change revolving: Is in paler dawn dissolving. And in Spring grow free; All things in the world will change, Sing then, hopeful are all times! BARRY CORNWALL. DIRGE FOR THE YEAR. ORPHAN Hours, the Year is dead, For the Year is but asleep: As an earthquake rocks a corse In its coffin in the clay, As the wild air stirs and sways The tree-swung cradle of a child, So the breath of these rude days Rocks the Year. Be calm and mild, Trembling Hours; she will arise With new love within her eyes. January gray is here, Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier; March with grief doth howl and rave, And April weeps-but, O ye Hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. THE SKATERS' SONG. THIS bleak and frosty morning, With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, Great Jove looks on us smiling, From right to left we're plying; With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, See! see our train advances! With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, ANONYMOUS. INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS IN CALLING FORTH AND STRENGTHENING THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND YOUTH. WISDOM and Spirit of the universe! Thou Soul, that art the eternity of thought! Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me With stinted kindness. In November days, When vapors rolling down the valleys made A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer nights, When, by the margin of the trembling lake, Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went HYMN IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. In solitude, such intercourse was mine. Mine was it in the fields both day and night, I heeded not the summons. Happy time We hissed along the polished ice, in games The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare. Of melancholy, not unnoticed; while the stars, Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the west The orange sky of evening died away. Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively HYMN 119 BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI, HAST thou a charm to stay the morning-star In his steep course? So long he seems tc pause On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc ! Thy habitation from eternity! O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought. Entranced in prayer I worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy- Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous As in her natural form, swelled vast to throng, To cut across the reflex of a star Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed The rapid line of motion, then at once With visible motion her diurnal round! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Heaven! Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale! O struggling with the darkness all the night, Companion of the morning-star at dawn, |