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, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene , 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, Lusty father of Titans past number! I listen, and it cheers me long. HENRY W ADSWORTI LONGFELLOW. TO A WINTER WIND. 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! 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! Where, twisted round the barren oak, The summer vine in beauty clung, The crystal icicle is hung. Fierce wind! mad wind! howling through the nations! Knew 'st thou leapeth that heart as thou sweep'st by 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; Merry snow-birds, twittering, 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 SONNET TO A BIRD THAT HAUNTED THE WATERS OF 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. Shadows are trailing, 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, All about the waste, Then, how merry are the times ! WILLIAM DRUMMOND. AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. The day is ending 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 ; Saddens into gray, 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. And in Spring grow free; Sing then, hopeful are all times ! BARRY CORNWALL. Through clouds like ashes That glimmer red. The snow recommences; 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 ; With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, As an earthquake rocks a corse In its coffin in the clay, Rocks the dead-cold Year to-day ; The tree-swung cradle of a child, 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! With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, ANONYMOUS. INFLUENCE OF NATURAL OBJECTS IN CALLING FORTII AND STRENGTHENING THE IMAGINATION IN BOYHOOD AND YOUTH. THE SKATERS' SONG. This bleak and frosty morning, With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, To the sound of the merry horn. With a fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, Wisdom and Spirit of the universe ! 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. HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI, 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 |