74 MIDWINTER IN THE PUBLIC GA

And all beneath, in shine

Of softest radiance, a merry dance Kept time to old clock striking nine.

With graceful sweep, and gay, Gently pirouetting, no bird on wing Was ever half so swift as they.

Glancing o'er frozen lake

Like small steel Mercuries they lightly w Cutting the icy path they take.

Oh! buds of happy spring

Blooming within this garden, find it hard To slowly perish, withering;

To leave the enchanted spot

For Autumn's drear decay to have its way
On scroll, and mound, and garden plot

Content ye! all things tend

As seasons fluctuate, to those who wait,
Unto a happier, sweeter end.

The garden blooms no more 'Tis true; yet Nature glows like heart of Opening anew her blushing store.

A garden sweet of girls

Light-footed, dainty-faced, has Winter gra

('Mid ice, and sleet, and mad snow whi

Herself with, till a flush

Of Springtime dawn is holding bloom untold.
Of lily and the wild-rose blush,

To fling with lavish hand

On each beholder, drawn to view the morn
Of life in this sweet, girlish band.

Oh! sweet are childhood's grace

And budding womanhood; so rare and good
Are loving heart and lovely face.

Dear bud and blooming flower!

May summertide and cold blast but unfold
Thee both with blessing every hour.

MRS. HARRIET MULFORD [STONE] LOTHROP.

FROST-WORK.

THESE winter nights, against my window-pane
Nature with busy pencil draws designs
Of ferns and blossoms and fine spray of pines,
Oak-leaf and acorn and fantastic vines,

Which she will make when summer comes again,
Quaint arabesques in argent, flat and cold,
Like curious Chinese etchings. By and by,
Walking my leafy garden as of old,
These frosty fantasies shall charm my eye
In azure, damask, emerald, and gold.

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

THE PROPHECY.

THE PROPHECY.

THOSE Who have looked upon the dead have seen
A faint prophetic glory in the face,
As if a light were breaking, warm, serene,
Upon their vision in some unknown place.

So now upon the ashen clouds there came
A delicate suffusion, deepening slow,
Till through a silver rift a tender flame

Poured a pale radiance on the crusted snow.

And far o'er many a bleak and haggard mile
Of drifted glen and desolate white plain
The splendor hovered, like a tranquil smile
On wan lips rigid with their last cold pain.

It was a revelation: the keen air

Seemed misted with a rain of luminous gold,
And in the hazel copse and hedge-rows bare
I looked to see the first green buds unfold.

And suddenly the mute midwinter gloom

Seemed musical with insect-murmuring, And phantom odors of the cherry-bloom Woke in my heart the ecstacy of spring.

The glory passed; again on field and hill

Relentless winter frowned in darkest mood, And through the ice-bound valleys, rising shrill,

The wind wrung bitter moanings from the wood.

HORATIAN ODE.

But I had caught the gracious prophecy
Of April hasting from her southern bowers,
And felt beneath the melancholy sky

The tender benediction of the flowers.

77

CHARLES LOTIN HILDRETH.

HORATIAN ODE.

(MIDWINTER.)

HELVELLYN's height with snow is white,
The forest branches bow and splinter:
No ripple breaks the frozen lakes.

Then shut my door on cold and winter.

On my hearth-dogs pile up the logs,

Pile high, my boy, and down your throttle Right freely pour my "thirty-four,"

And never spare the old man's bottle.

Leave all the rest to Him who best
Knows how to still the roar of ocean,

To calm the wind in wildest mind,
And hush the leaflet's lightest motion.

Fear not to stay upon the day,

And count for gain each simple pleasure. Be not above the game of Love,

And featly tread the Christmas measure.

78

JUNE IN JANUARY.

Let blood run cold when life grows old,

Stick now to skate and tennis-racket, Till, westward ho, the sun-wheels go,

Then join the sports of frock and jacke

When bright eyes smile, laugh back the wh
And find the nook where beauty lingers

Steal golden charm from rounded arm,
Half-given, half-held, by fairy fingers.

HERMAN CHARLES M

JUNE IN JANUARY.

I GLANCE through the curtain's fold,
Out in the chill-blue night,

On the orchard snugly rolled

In its coverlet of white.

I see no swaying nest

On the limb of any tree;

Nor a leaf, as the wind from the west
Stirs the branches tremblingly.

O Sight's strange witchery!

I watch from my cosy room,
And see the moon sleep peacefully
On the apple-trees in bloom.

RICHARD KENDALL MUNKIT