THE MONARCH OF THE NORTH.
THE MONARCH OF THE NORTH
UNBARRED, to-day, the arctic door.
The royal army marches forth;
Back! angry blasts ride on before
The hoary monarch of the North!
The trumpets sound, the captains glance
From crest to crest, from lance to lance;
Rouse, vassals! clank the biting chain,
Your icy shackles drag amain!
Think ye to move his heart with prayer,
This gray old terror of the air?
He glories in the dying groan,
The shrunken flesh, the staring bone;
He gloats upon each pleading eye,
As savagely he passes by.
Rouse! Up! it is the warrior's day,
Wild hosts of Winter march this way!
Beware! again the trumpets blare!
Lo, answering powers crowd the air;
Dread horde invisible, they drive
Together, wrestle, fiercely strive,
In writhing masses downward leap,
Down, down the helpless valley sweep.
From mountain top to ocean shore !
Aha, who bars the arctic door,
Forbids his army's marching forth?
Back! back! mad blasts ride on before
Wroth Winter, monarch of the North!
JOHN VANCE CHENEY.
May hath the bud, and the bee, and the dove,
And the sky of the summer is bluest above,
But the year's first month, she bringeth my love
And her bridal-day!
WHEN ice is black upon the pond,
And woods and ways are choked with snow
The Robin flutters in!
The little maids, with wide glad eyes,
Stand spell-bound, lest a breath or sign
Shall scare him from his crumbs.
Oft when the fire is keen with frost,
And blinds are drawn and candles lit,
(O Robin, flutter in!)
They sit around the cosy hearth,
And hear with wondering love and awe,
How Robin's breast grew red.
Fond little maids! each fancies now
That somewhere in the great white snow,
(O Robin, flutter in!)
That somewhere, in the tracts of snow,
An icy Cross forsaken stands,
And Christ hangs pale and dead!
A childish fancy? Be it so!
And let me ever be a child,
With Robins fluttering in,
Than grow into the man who sees
In wintry wastes of unbelief
A phantom Christ and Cross!
(SINGING IN WINTER.)
Ay, little Larky! what's the reason,
Singing thus in winter season?
Nothing, surely, can be pleasing
To make thee sing;
For I see nought but cold and freezing,
And feel its sting.
Perhaps, all done with silent mourning,
Thou think'st that summer is returning,
And this the last, cold, frosty morning,
To chill thy breast;
If so, I pity thy discerning;
And so I've guessed.
Poor little Songster! vainly cheated:
Stay, leave thy singing uncompleted ;
Drop where thou wast beforehand seated,
In thy warm nest;
Nor let vain wishes be repeated,
'Tis Winter; let the cold content thee:
Wish after nothing till it's sent thee,
For disappointments will torment thee,
Which will be thine :
I know it well, for I've had plenty
Misfortunes mine.
Advice, sweet Warbler! don't despise it:
None knows what's what, but he that tries it;
And then he well knows how to prize it,
And so do I:
Thy case, with mine I sympathize it,
With many a sigh.
Vain Hope! of thee I've had my portion;
Mere flimsy cobweb! changing ocean!
That flits the scene at every motion,
And still eggs on,
With sweeter view, and stronger notion
To dwell upon.
Yes, I've dwelt long on idle fancies,
Strange and uncommon as romances,
On future luck my noddle dances,
What I would be;
But, ah! when future time advances,
All's blank to me.
Now twenty years I've packed behind me,
Since Hope's deluding tongue inclined me
To fuss myself. But, Warbler, mind me,
It's all a sham;
And twenty more's as like to find me
Just as I am.
I'm poor enough, there's plenty knows it;
Obscure; how dull, my scribbling shews it:
Then sure 'twas madness to suppose it,
To gain preferment! - there I'll close it:
So mum for that.
Let mine, sweet Bird, then be a warning:
Advice, in season, don't be scorning;
|