"He causeth His wind to blow, and the waters flow."—Psalm cxlvii. 18. HE snow has left the cottage roof; The thatch-moss grows in brighter green; And eaves in quick succession drop, In tubs set by the cottage-door; The milkmaid singing leaves her bed, As jocund in the change as she: Nor lingering wait the foddering-boy; Tossing the mole-hills in their play And staring round with frolic joy. The shepherd now is often seen Near warm banks o'er his hook to bend ; Or o'er a gate or stile to lean, Chattering to a passing friend: Ploughmen go whistling to their toils, Boys shout, and whips are noising now. The barking dogs by lane and wood, Drive sheep a-field from foddering ground, And Echo in her Summer mood, Briskly mocks the cheering sound. The flocks, as from a prison broke, Shake their wet fleeces in the sun, While, following fast, a misty smoke Reeks from the moist grass as they run. The small birds think their wants are o'er, No longer to his elbow comes To peck, with hunger's eager joy, 'Mong mossy stumps the littered crumbs. 'Neath hedge and walls that screen the wind From out their hiding-holes again, With feeble pace, they often creep Along the sun-warmed window-pane, Like dreaming things that walk in sleep. FEBRUARY-FILL-DIKE. 31 FEBRUARY-FILL-DIKE. "As yet the trembling year is unconfirmed Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets Hark! FEBRUARY-FILL-DIKE is an appropriate name for the damp month which comes in the end of Winter; but we know that "the time of the singing of birds" is at hand, and bear patiently the dearth and desolation which reigns around us, and look upon the lengthening of the days as sure heralds of coming sunshine and flowers. how the wind roars; and the leafless trees still sway their naked forms to and fro, and toss their skeleton arms in the air like maniacs; for there is a loud howling in the "savage woods," a roar of clashing branches and uprooted trees, as if Fingal led his warriors forth to battle, and commenced the "stormy strife," while Ossian twanged his wild harp to the gale. How wonderful are the winds! we feel their power, and shrink beneath it, yet see them not; the ocean is uplifted by their might, the angry waves lash the sky, navies are destroyed, and forests are blown down, yet we see not the arm that strikes. "He plants His footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm." And beautiful are some of those sublime passages in Holy Writ :— "He did fly upon the wings of the wind;" "the heaven was black with clouds and wind;" "there came a great wind from the wilderness;" "the winds blew, and beat upon that house, and it fell;" "He gathereth the wind in His fists;" "and the wind was in their wings;" "like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed.” All these and numberless other passages show what an eye the holy writers had for the poetry of the elements. TO A WATERFOWL. WHITHER, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere; And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. |