No end to any Row, No indications where the Crescents go, No recognitions of familiar people, No travelling at all, no locomotion, No news from any foreign coast, No park, no ring, no afternoon gentility, No company, no nobility, No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, Thomas Hood. OWN swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, DOWN From the snow five thousand summers old; On open wold and hill-top bleak It had gathered all the cold, And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek; It carried a shiver everywhere From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys; The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, The little bird sits at his door in the sun; And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives. His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, Now is the high-tide of the year, And whatever of life hath ebbed away My boy!.... my Jacob . . . . Turn again! ' NOVEMBER, Bret Harte. No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day, No sky, no earthly view, No distance looking blue, No road, no street, no "t' other side the way," And if the breeze kept the good news back, We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,— And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, Warmed with the new wine of the year, Tells all in his lusty crowing! Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how; Everything is upward striving; 'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true Who knows whither the clouds have fled? In the unscarred heaven they leave no wake; And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe James R. Lowell. WINTER. DOWN swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, From the snow five thousand summers old; On open wold and hill-top bleak It had gathered all the cold, And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek; It carried a shiver everywhere From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; The little brook heard it and built a roof All night by the white stars' frosty gleams Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew No mortal builder's most rare device By the elfin builders of the frost. Within the hall are song and laughter; The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly; And sprouting is every corbel and rafter With lightsome green of ivy and holly; Through the deep gulf of the chimney wide Wallows the Yule-log's roaring tide; The broad flame-pennons droop and flap Hunted to death in its galleries blind; But the wind without was eager and sharp, The icy strings, Singing, in dreary monotone, A Christmas carol of its own, Whose burden still, as he might guess, Was "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless!" James R. Lowell. ADVERTISEMENT OF A LOST DAY. LOST! lost! lost! A gem of countless price, Cut from the living rock And graved in Paradise; |