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Vale and mead,
And steadfast wave lie stretch'd beneath my eye,
Clad in one uniform livery. O'er the lake
The skaters flit like shadows, and afar
The waggoner plods beside his smoking team ;
The sportsman, followed by his frolic hounds,
Springs up the breezy hill-side. Save for these,
All breathing life alike seems motionless.

FROST. A playful little poem, whose author we do not know, is the following:

THE frost look'd forth one still clear night,
And he said "I shall soon be out of sight,
So through the valley, and over the height,

In silence I'll take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,

But I'll be as busy as they."
Then he went to the mountain, and powder'd its crest,
He climb’d up the trees, and their boughs he drest
With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast

Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it might not fear
The downward point of many a spear,
Which he hung on the margin far and near

Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever he breathed—wherever he stepp'd,

By the light of the moon were seen
Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees,
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees,
There were cities, thrones, temples, and towns, and these

All pictured in silver sheen.

Here I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat,

The horrid sounds, and its polluted air; And where the season's milder fervours beat,

And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear The song of bird, and sound of running stream, Am come awhile to wander and to dream.

Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun! thou canst not wake,

In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen, The maize leaf and the maple bough but take

From thy strong heats, a deeper, glossier green; The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray, Sweeps the blue streams of pestilence away.

The mountain wind! most spiritual thing of all

The wide earth knows-when, in the sultry time, He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall,

He seems the breath of a celestial clime! As if from Heaven's wide-open gates did flow Health and refreshment on the world below.

DECEMBER

A young poetess of great promise, named EDITH May, has lately appeared in America. The following passage from one of her poems is worthy of Wordsworth himself.

Now through the distant vales the fawn's light foot
Leaveth its cloven impress on the snow ;
The woods' soft echoes mock the baying hound;
The hunter builds his watch-fire on the hills;
The school-boy from his morning task released,
Shoulders his rifle, and goes blithely forth
To start the dusky pheasant from her nest,
Down in the ferny hollows. All day long
There is a sound of muffled hoofs, half drown'd
By the quick sleigh-bell that rejoicingly
Rings in the new-born monarch. All day long
The woodsman plies his sharp and sudden axe
Under the crashing branches.

Vale and mead,
And steadfast wave lie stretch'd beneath my eye,
Clad in one uniform livery. O'er the lake
The skaters flit like shadows, and afar
The waggoner plods beside his smoking team;
The sportsman, followed by his frolic hounds,
Springs up the breezy hill-side. Save for these,
All breathing life alike seems motionless.

FROST. A playful little poem, whose author we do not know, is the following:

The frost look’d forth one still clear night,
And he said "I shall soon be out of sight,
So through the valley, and over the height,

In silence I'll take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,

But I'll be as busy as they."

Then he went to the mountain, and powder'd its crest,
He climb'd up the trees, and their boughs he drest
With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast

Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it might not fear
The downward point of many a spear,
Which he hung on the margin far and near

Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever he breathed—wherever he stepp'd,

By the light of the moon were seen
Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees,
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees,
There were cities, thrones, temples, and towns, and these

All pictured in silver sheen.

But he did one thing that was hardly fair-
He went to the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare,

“ Now, just to set them thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit,” said be,
" This bloated pitcher I'll burst in three,
And the glass of water they've left for me

Shall crack to tell I've been drinking !"

Brilliants.

FRIENDSHIP.

I had a friend that loved me;
I was his soul : he lived not but in me:
We were so closed within each other's breast,
The rivets were not found that join'd us first,
That do not reach us yet: we were so mix'd,
As meeting streams; both to ourselves were lost.
We were one mass; we could not give or take,
But from the same, for he was I, I he.
Return, my better half, and give me all myself,
For thou art all !

DRYDEN.
THE RAINBOW.
How glorious is thy girdle, cast

O'er mountain, tower, and town;
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,
A thousand fathoms down!

CAMPBELL.

ETERNITY.
ETERNITY! thou holdest in thy hand
The casket of all secrets : Death the key.

BAYLEY.

THE EYE.
Takes in at once the landscape of the world
At a small inlet which a grain might close,
And half creates the wondrous world we see.

YOUNG.

TO A GLOVE.
Thou more than most sweet glove,
Unto my more sweet love,
Suffer me to store with kisses
This empty lodging, that now misses
The pure rosy band that wore thee,
Whiter than the kid that bore thee.
Thou art soft, but that was softer;
Cupid's self hath kiss'd it ofter
Than e'er he did his mother's doves
That was thy mistress, best of gloves.

BEN JONSON.

BEAUTY ASLEEP.

DARK lay her eyelid's jetty fringe
Upon that cheek whose roseate tinge
Mix'd with its shade, like evening's light
Just touching on the verge of night.
Her eyes, though thus in slumber hid,
Seem'd glowing through the ivory lid;
And, as I thought, a lustre threw
Upon her lips, reflecting dew-
Such as a night-lamp, left to shine
Alone on some secluded shrine,
May shed upon the votive wreath
Which pious hands have hung beneath.

T. MOORE.
DO GOOD.
Do and suffer nought in vain ;

Let no trifle trifling be:
If the salt of life is pain,

Let e'en wrongs bring good to thee;
Good to others, few or many,
Good to all, or good to any.

EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

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