STANZAS. Taken from Chambers's Journal where they appeared anonymously. STILL the same, ever the same, this outward face of things! Time but toucheth it gently; little the change it brings. Here where we sat together spreadeth the self-same treeCurved and matted the branches, just as they used to be. Even the rich-toned lichen keepeth its place and form, Mellowing the old gray oak-bark, tinting it sunset warm. Grandly the dome of beech-trees archeth the old wood o'er; Vividly fretteth the sorrel the deep brown beech-leaf floor. The wild-rose scents the valley, the golden gorse, the hill. Thou art a whited sepulchre all full of mould'ring bones! Green is the grass above our graves; dearer the death below; No wood-songs bring our music back-it ceased too long ago; Why should thy soulless beauty, then, thus everlasting seem, The while our living flowers fade, and vanish like a dream? Thus spake I, standing lonely in the old unchanging scene, Marking the empty setting where the living gems had been; But the solemn voice of nature rose on the wind and said: Why wilt thou still be seeking the living amid the dead? The seed and the berry moulder, and the hard stone mouldereth not; But where rise the beauteous flowers ?-where the seed and the berry rot." THE GAME AT CHESS. A playful little poem by the late LAMAN BLANCHARD. It was contributed to one of the Annuals. LOVE with a lady-would you know Her name, then read this heart, for there Love with a lady play'd at chess! Most innocent, and calm, and high, 'Twas like a dream to see them play: And hush'd in charm'd thought, sat they, And surely in that silentness Angels, on heaven's own azure hill, But see, a smile succeeds to doubt "the move; In her fair eyes-they see Joy in her soul: and thus with Love What is the world, and what is life, To her whose heart is in the game! The bliss of that ingenious strife Is dear to her as health or fame! With whomsoe'er she plays, the same; E'en losing has some power to bless : And were Love dead, she'd feel no shame To sit with Hatred down to chess! Love, brooding o'er the board grows dull, Quivers with some convulsive ache- Her heedless hand! while wandering o'er How flush her cheeks, how fire her eyes, His eyes had been on hers for hours, Yet knew she not that Love had gazed; His breath had warm'd her cheek's rich flowers And still these thoughts were all unraised. Now sits she like a thing amazed; Her chance at every move grows less She plays at random-one so crazed Ne'er lost nor gain'd a game at chess. ; Thoughts of the player crowd above Mother or sister tilt the board And she know no emotion less King, queen, that heart hath quite forgot; No bishop, but a curate plain. CHRISTMAS RHYMES. Taken from an old newspaper where it appears anonymously. It marvellously resembles the style of BARRY CORNWALL. WINTER cold is coming on; No more budding flowery pleasures; All is over,-all forgot; Save by me, who loved them not. Winter white is coming ou; And I love bis coming. What, though winds the fields have shorn, What though earth is half forlorn, Not a berry on the thorn, Not an insect humming; Pleasure never can be dead; Beauty cannot hide her head! Look! in what fantastic shower, The snow flings down her feather'd flower, Kissing its love, the holly tree: Behold! the sun himself comes forth, And sends his beams from south to north, To diamonds turns the winter rime, Such days, when old friends meet together, -'s dinner hour! Come on,-I see his table spread, WINTER. JAMES SMITH has written some lines on Winter, which have much of the spirit of the old English poets. THE mill-wheel's frozen in the stream, There goes the squire to shoot at snipe, You'd swear his breath was the smoke of a pipe Hodge is breaking the ice for the kine, Old and young cough as they go; The round red sun forgets to shine, And hark, how the cold winds blow! |