Obrazy na stronie
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For the Gale snatches thee for his lyre, Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs

With mad hand crashing melody frantic, Pour out the river's gradual tide,
While he pours forth his mighty desire Shrilly the skater’s iron rings
To leap down on the eager Atlantic,

And voices fill the woodland side.
Whose arms stretch to his playmate.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene
The wild Storm makes his lair in thy branches, and winds were soft

, and woods were green

When birds sang out their mellow lay, And thence preys on the continent under; Like a lion, crouched close on his haunches,

And the song ceased not with the day. There awaiteth his leap the fierce thunder, But still, wild music is abroad, Growling low with impatience.

Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;

And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
Spite of Winter, thou keep'st thy green glory, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Lusty father of Titans past number!
The snow-flakes alone make thee hoary, Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Nestling close to thy branches in slumber, Has grown familiar with your song;
And thee mantling with silence. I hear it in the opening year,-

I listen, and it cheers me long.
Thou alone know'st the splendor of Winter,

HENRY W ADSWORTI LONGFELLOW.
'Mid thy snow-silvered, hushed precipices,
Hearing crags of green ice groan and splinter,
And then plunge down the muffled abysses

TO A WINTER WIND.
In the quiet of midnight.

Thou alone know'st the glory of Summer,

Loud wind! strong wind! blowing from the Gazing down on thy broad seas of forest

mountains; On thy subjects, that send a proud murmur

Fresh wind! free wind! sweeping o'er the Up to thee, to their sachem, who towerest sea, From thy bleak throne to heaven. Pour forth thy vials like torrents from airJAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

fountains, Draughts of life to me!

Clear wind! cold wind! like a northern giant,

Stars brightly threading all thy cloud-driven WOODS IN WINTER.

hair, Thrilling the blank night with a voice de

fiantWhen winter winds are piercing chill,

I will meet thee there!
And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill

Wild wind! bold wind! like a strong-armed That overbrows the lonely vale.

angel i O'er the bare upland,

Clasp me round !-kiss me with thy kisses and away

divine ! Through the long reach of desert woods,

Breathe in my dulled heart thy secret, sweet The embracing sunbeams chastely play,

evangel, And gladden these deep solitudes.

Mine, and only mine!

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Where, twisted round the barren oak,

The summer vine in beauty clung,
And surnmer winds the stillness broke,-

The crystal icicle is hung.

Fierce wind! mad wind! howling through

the nations! Knew 'st thou leapeth that heart as thou

sweep'st by

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ANONYMOUS.

Ah! thou would'st pause awhile in gentle Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art patience,

To mimic in slow structures, stone by store, Like a human sigh !

Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work

The frolic architecture of the snow. Sharp wind! keen windl piercing as word

RALPH WALDO EVERSOX. arrows, Empty thy quiver-full! Pass on! what is 't

to thee, Though in some burning eyes life's whole

WINTER SONG. bright circle narrows To one misery?

SUMMER joys are o'er; Loud wind! strong wind! stay thou in the

Flowerets bloom no more, mountains;

Wintry winds are sweeping; Fresh wind! free wind! trouble not the sea!

Through the snow-drifts, peeping.

Cheerful evergreen Or lay thy freezing hand upon my heart's wild fountains

Rarely now is seen. That I hear not thee!

Now no plumed throng

Charms the wood with song;
Ice-bound trees are glittering;

Merry snow-birds, twittering,
THE SNOW-STORM.

Fondly strive to cheer

Scenes so cold and drear. ANNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky,

Winter, still I see Arrives the snow; and, driving o'er the fields,

Many charms in theeSeems nowhere to alight; the whited air

Love thy chilly greeting, Hides hills and woods, the river, and the

Snow-storms fiercely beating, heaven,

And the dear delights And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.

Of the long, long nights. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's

LUDWIG HOLTY, (German) feet

Translation of C. T. BROOKS. Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates

sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

SONNET
Come see the north wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry, evermore

TO A BIRD THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS OF
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof O MELANCHOLY bird, a winter's day
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door; Thou standest by the margin of the pool,
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work And, taught by God, dost thy whole being
So fanciful, so savage; nought cares he

school For number or proportion. Mockingly, To patience, which all evil can allay. On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; God has appointed thee the fish thy prey, A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; And given thyself a lesson to the fool Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. A tapering turret overtops the work.

There need not schools nor the professor's And when his hours are numbered, and the

chair, world

Though these be good, trne wisdom to impart: Is all his own, retiring as he were not, He who has not enough for these to spare,

LAAKEN IN THE WINTER.

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Shadows are trailing,
My heart is bewailing
And tolling within
Like a funeral bell.

HENRY WADSWORTI LONGFELLOW.

A SONG FOR THE SEASONS.

SWEET bird! that sing 'st away the early

hours Of winters past or coming, void of care. Well pleased with delights which present are, Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling

flowersTo rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy

bowers Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, And what dear gifts on thee he did not spare, A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. What soul can be so sick which by thy songs (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and

wrongs, And lift & reverend eye and thought to

Heaven! Sweet, artless songster! thou my mind dost

raise To airs of spheres--yes, and to angels' lays.

When the merry lark doth gild

With his song the summer hours, And their nests the swallows build

In the roofs and tops of towers,
And the golden broom-flower burns

All about the waste,
And the maiden May returns
With a pretty haste,-

Then, how merry are the times !
The Summer times ! the Spring times :

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY.

The day is ending
The night is descending;
The marsh is frozen,

The river dead.

Now, from off the ashy stone

The chilly midnight cricket crieth, And all merry birds are flown,

And our dream of pleasure dieth ;
Now the once blue, laughing sky

Saddens into gray,
And the frozen rivers sigh,
Pining all away!

Nou, how solemn are the times !

The Winter times ! the Night times ! Yet, be merry: all around

Is through one vast change revolving: Even Night, who lately frowned,

Is in paler dawn dissolving.
Earth will burst her fetters strange,

And in Spring grow free;
All things in the world will change,
Save-my love for thee!

Sing then, hopeful are all times !
Winter, Summer, Spring times !

BARRY CORNWALL.

Through clouds like ashes
The red sun flashes
On village windows

That glimmer red.

The snow recommences;
The buried fences
Mark no longer

The road o'er the plain;

DIRGE FOR THE YEAR.

ORPHAN Hours, the Year is dead,

Come and sigh, come and weep! Merry Hours, smile instead,

For the Year is but asleep : See, it smiles as it is sleeping, Mocking your untimely weeping.

From right to left we're plying ;
Swifter than winds we're flying-
Spheres on spheres surrounding,
Health and strength abounding.
In circles we sleep;
Our poise still we keep;
Behold how we sweep
The face of the deep:

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la,
To the sound of the merry horn.

As an earthquake rocks a corse

In its coffin in the clay,
So white Winter, that rough nurse,

Rocks the dead-cold Year to-day ;
Solemn Hours! wail aloud
For your mother in her shroud.
As the wild air stirs and sways

The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude days

Rocks the Year. Be calm and mild, Trembling Hours; she will arise With new love within her eyes. January gray is here,

Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier;

March with grief doth howl and rave, And April weeps--but, О ye Hours ! Follow with May's fairest flowers.

PEROY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

See! see our train advances!
See how each skater lances !
Health and strength abounding,
While horns and oboes sounding;
The Tritons shall blow
Their conch-shells below,
And their beards fear to show,
While a-skating we go:

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la,
To the sound of the merry horn.

ANONYMOUS.

INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS

IN CALLING FORTII AND STRENGTHENING THE

IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND YOUTH.

THE SKATERS' SONG.

This bleak and frosty morning,
All thoughts of danger scorning,
Our spirits brightly flow;
We're all in a glow,
Through the sparkling snow
While a-skating we go :

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la,

To the sound of the merry horn.
Great Jove looks on us smiling,
Who thus the time beguiling,
Through the waters we sail ;
Still we row on our keel;
Our weapons are steel,
And no danger we feel :

With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la,
To the sound of the merry horn.

Wisdom and Spirit of the universe !
Thou Soul, that art the eternity of thought!
And giv'st to forms and images a breath
And everlasting motion! not in vain,
By day or star-light, thus from my first dawn
Of childhood didst thou intertwine for me
The passions that build up our human soul-
Not with the mean and vulgar works of Man,
But with high objects, with enduring things,
With Life and Nature; purifying thus
The elements of feeling and of thought,
And sanctifying by such discipline
Both pain and fear,—until we recognize
A grandeur in the beatings of the heart.

Nor was this fellowship vouchsafed to me With stinted kindness. In November days, When vapors rolling down the valleys made A lonely scene more lonesome; among woods At noon; and 'mid the calm of summer

nights, When, by the margin of the trembling lake, Beneath the gloomy hills, homeward I went

HYMN IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.

119

In solitude, such intercourse was mine.
Mine was it in the fields both day and night,

HYMN
And by the waters, all the Summer long;
And in the frosty season, when the sun

BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI,
Was set, and, visible for many a mile,
The cottage windows through the twilight Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star
blazed,

In his steep course? So long he seems to I heeded not the summons. Happy time

pause It was indeed for all of us; for me

On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc ! It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud The Arve and Arveiron at thy base The village-clock tolled six; I wheeled about, Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form! Proud and esulting like an untired horse Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, That cares not for his home. All shod with How silently! Around thee and above steel,

Deep is the air and dark, substantial, blackWe hissed along the polished ice, in games

An ebon mass. Methinks thou piercest it, Confederate, imitative of the chase

As with a wedge! But when I look again, And woodland pleasures,—the resounding It is thine own calm home, thy crystal horn,

shrine, The pack loud-chiming, and the hunted hare. Thy habitation from eternity! So through the darkness and the cold we flew, O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, And not a voice was idle. With the din Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Smitten, the precipices rang aloud;

Didst vanish from my thought. Entranced in The leafless trees and every icy crag

prayer Tinkled like iron; while far-distant hills I worshipped the Invisible alone. Into the tumult sent an alien sound

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, Of melancholy, not unnoticed; while the stars, So sweet we know not we are listening to it, Eastward, were sparkling clear, and in the Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with west

my thoughtorange sky of evening died away. Yea, with my life and life's own secret joyNot seldom from the uproar I retired Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into a silent bay, or sportively

Into the mighty vision passing—there, Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous As in her natural form, swelled vast to throng,

Heaven! To cut across the reflex of a star

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, ['pon the glassy plain. And oftentimes, Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, When we had given our bodies to the wind, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, And all the shadowy banks on either side

awake! Came sweeping through the darkness, spin- Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. ning still

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the The rapid line of motion, then at once

vale! Have I, reclining back upon my heels, O struggling with the darkness all the night, Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs And visited all night by troops of stars, Wheeled by me,-even as

the Earth had Or when they climb the sky or when they rolled

sinkWith visible motion her diurnal round! Companion of the morning-star at dawn, Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Feebler and feebler; and I stood and watched Co-herald—wake, O wake, and utter praise ! Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?

Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

The

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