THERE was never a leaf on bush or tree,
The bare boughs rattled shudderingly;
The river was dumb and could not speak,

For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun ;

A single crow on the tree-top bleak

From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun; Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, As if her veins were sapless and old,

And she rose up decrepitly

For a last dim look at earth and sea.

JAMES RUSSELL Lowell.

The Vision of Sir Launfal.

60

A WINTER SONG.

A WINTER SONG.

CAME the dread Archer up yonder lawn (Night is the time for the old to die) —

But woe for an arrow that smote the fawn When the hind that was sick unscathed

Father lay moaning, "Her fault was sore (Night is the time when the old must die), Yet, ah to bless her, my child, once more, For heart is failing: the end is nigh."

"Daughter, my daughter, my girl," I cried (Night is the time for the old to die), "Woe for the wish if till morn ye bide,”. Dark was the welkin and wild the sky.

Heavily plunged from the roof the snow, (Night is the time when the old will die), She answered, "My mother, 'tis well, I go Sparkled the north star, the wrack flew

First at his head, and last at his feet
(Night is the time when the old should die)
Kneeling I watched till his soul did fleet,
None else that loved him, none else wer

I wept in the night as the desolate weep, (Night is the time for the old to die), Cometh my daughter? the drifts are deep,

Across the cold hollows how white they

AURORA BOREALIS.

I sought her afar through the spectral trees, (Night is the time when the old must die),

The fells were all muffled, the floods did freeze, And a wrathful moon hung red in the sky.

61

By night I found her where pent waves steal,
(Night is the time when the old should die),
But she lay stiff by the locked mill-wheel,
And the old stars lived in their homes on high.

JEAN INGELOW.

AURORA BOREALIS.

A HAND as icy as the hand of death
Rests on the hills inviolably white;
And while a brazen bell invokes the night
With deep reverberant voice that clearly saith,
"I mark each hour that swiftly hasteneth,"
Behold within the north a crimson light
That reaches to the heavens' farthest height,
As fiery as the fabled war-god's breath.
"Tis grim old Thor, who, in the halcyon days
Of seasons gone, his searing bolts let fly
Until no shaft was left wherewith to slay;
Now in his polar furnace's fiercest blaze
He forges darts with which to terrify
When summer treads again her sunlit way!
CLINTON SCOLLARD.

62

IN THE NIGHTS OF WINTER.

THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET.

GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass,

Catching your heart up at the feel of June,-Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon When even the bees lag at the summoning brass; And you, warm little housekeeper, who class

With those who think the candles come too soon, Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune Nick the glad silent moments as they pass! O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong,

One to the fields, the other to the hearth,

Both have your sunshine: both, though small, are strong

At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth To sing in thoughtful ears this natural song,—

In doors and out, summer and winter, mirth.

JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT.

IN THE NIGHTS OF WINTER.

. IN the nights of winter,
When the cold north winds blow,
And the long howling of the wolves
Is heard amidst the snow;
When round the lonely cottage
Roars loud the tempest's din,
And the good logs of Algidus
Roar louder yet within ;

SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME.

When the oldest cask is opened,

And the largest lamp is lit;

When the chestnuts glow in the embers,
And the kid turns on the spit;
When young and old in circle

Around the firebrands close;
When the girls are weaving baskets,
And the lads are shaping bows;

When the goodman mends his armor,
And trims his helmet's plume;
When the goodwife's shuttle merrily
Goes flashing through the loom;
With weeping and with laughter
Still is the story told,

How well Horatius kept the bridge

In the brave days of old.

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

63

Horatius.

SEA-MEWS IN WINTER TIME.

I WALKED beside a dark gray sea,

And said, "O world, how cold thou art! Thou poor white world, I pity thee,

For joy and warmth from thee depart.

"Yon rising wave licks off the snow, Winds on the crag each other chase, In little powdery whirls they blow

The misty fragments down its face.

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