The leaves came on not quite so fast,
And Destiny, that sometimes bears.
An aspect stern on man's affairs,
Not altogether smiled on theirs.
The wind, of late breathed gently forth,
Now shifted east, and east by north;
Bare trees and shrubs but ill, you know,
Could shelter them from rain and snow;
Stepping into their nests, they paddled,
Themselves were chilled, their eggs were addled.
Soon every father bird and mother

Grew quarrelsome, and pecked each other,
Parted without the least regret,

Except that they had ever met,

And learned in future to be wiser

Than to neglect a good adviser.

WINTER.

WILLIAM COWPER.

SAD soul dear heart, why, why repine?

The melancholy tale is plain

The leaves of Spring, the Summer flowers,
Have bloomed and died again!

The sweet, the silver-sandaled dew,
Which like a maiden fed the flowers,
Hath waxed into the beldame frost,
And walked amid our bowers!

652023

Some buds there were - sad hearts be still!-
Which looked awhile unto the sky,
Then breathed but once or twice to tell
How sweetest things may die!

And some must blast where many bloom;
But, blast or bloom, the fruit must fall!
Why sigh for Spring or Summer gems,
Since winter gathers all?

He gathers all, but chide him not,

What though his breast and hands are cold, He folds them close as best he can,

For he is blind and old.

O chide him not! hear how he groans,
While frozen tears begem his face;
Through fields and woods he stumbles on,
The last of all his race.

See how he totters down the road, -
And now he's at yon cabin door,
And he has summoned from the hearth
The widow old and poor.

He points her to the distant grove, ·
He plucks her by the tattered gown;
And now he leads her through the woods,
And shakes the branches down.

WINTER.

See how he wanders up the hill
Before the morning is astir,

And stoops with trembling hands to wrap
The frozen traveller!

O chide him not, the poor old man!
He works some kindness in his rounds!
Nor leave him in the foulest nights
To kennel with the hounds!

But when he's standing at the gate,
Or at the portal makes a din,
Throw wood upon the crackling fire,
And let the old man in.

And seat him at the chimney side,

And let your looks with love abound; Then tell the tale and sing the song, And let the nuts go round.

Then shall you see his frowns dispelled,
And pleasure smile where all was drear;
And when his griefs are quite dissolved
The flowers again appear!

Sad soul-dear heart-why, why repine?
The tale is beautiful and plain -

Surely as Winter taketh all,

The Spring shall bring again!

ΙΟΙ

THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

WHITE ermine now the mountains wear,
And shield with this their shoulders bare.

The dark pine wears the snow, as head
Of Ethiop doth white turban wear.

The floods are armed with silver shields,
Through which the sun's sword cannot fare;

For he who once in mid heaven rode,
In golden arms, on golden chair,

Now through small corner of the sky
Creeps low, nor warms the foggy air.

To mutter 'twixt their teeth the streams,
In icy fetters, scarcely dare.

Hushed is the busy hum of life;
'Tis silence in the earth and air.

From mountains issues the gaunt wolf,
And from its forest depths the bear.

Where is the garden's beauty now?
The thorn is here; the rose, O where?

The trees, like giant skeletons,

Wave high their fleshless arms and bare;

A WINTER SONG.

Or stand like wrestlers stripped and bold,
And strongest winds to battle dare.

It seems a thing impossible

That earth its glories should repair;

That ever this bleak world again
Should bright and beauteous mantle wear,

Or sounds of life again be heard

In this dull earth and vacant air.

103

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

A WINTER SONG.

Ан, would that it were summer, once more the summer-time,

When the bloom was on the roses and the bees were

in the thyme,

On the thyme-flower in the moorland, on the roses in the vale,

And there the lark was singing, and here the nightingale.

Ah, the still and ancient garden where the nightingale sang strong

Till the brief sweet night was ended and the morning hushed her song: