In the strength of a mighty glee. And the warning roar of a fearful blow Is heard on the distant hill; And the Norther, see! on the mounIn his breath how the old trees writhe tain peak and shriek! He shouts on the plain, ho ho ho ho He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, And growls with a savage will. Such a night as this to be found abroad, In the drifts and the freezing air, All day had the snow come down-Lies a shivering dog, in the field, by all day As it never came down before; And over the hills, at sunset, lay Some two or three feet, or more; The fence was lost, and the wall of stone; The windows blocked and the wellcurbs gone; The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift, As it lay by the farmer's door. The night sets in on a world of snow, While th air grows sharp and chill, the road, With the snow in his shaggy hair. He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls; He lifts his head, and moans and howls; [sleet, Then crouching low, from the cutting His nose is pressed on his quivering feet Pray what does the dog do there? A farmer came from the village plain, A path for his horse and sleigh; And wags his tail when the rude winds flap The skirt of the buffalo over his lap, And whines that he takes no heed. The wind goes down and the storm is o'er 'Tis the hour of midnight past; The old trees writhe and bend no more In the whirl of the rushing blast. The silent moon with her peaceful light Looks down on the hills with snow all white, And the giant shadow of Camel's But cold and dead by the hidden log And his beautiful Morgan brown, He has given the last faint jerk of In the wide snow-desert, far and the rein, To rouse up his dying steed; And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain For help in his master's need. For awhile he strives with a wistful cry To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, GEORGE ELIOT (MARIAN EVANS CROSS). O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR O MAY I join the choir invisible In minds made better by their presence; live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn Of miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge men's minds To vaster issues. So to live is heaven: To make undying music in the world, Breathing a beauteous order, that controls With growing sway the growing life of man. So we inherit that sweet purity For which we struggled, failed and agonized With widening retrospect that bred despair. Shall fold its eyelids, and the human Be gathered like a scroll within the This is life to come, Which martyred men have made more glorious For us, who strive to follow. May I reach That purest heaven,-be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, And in diffusion ever more intense! JANE ELLIOT. THE FLOWers of tHE FOREST. I'VE heard the lilting at our ewe-milking, But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning- At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning, Nae daflin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing, In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming, Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the border The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremos Run out to welcome me,She mewing, with her tail on end, While wagging his comes he. They listen for my homeward steps, My smothered sob they hear, When down my heart sinks, deathly down, Because my home is near. Why come they not? They do not come My breaking heart to meet! Oh, yes, they come!-they never fail My poor heart brightens when it meets The sunshine of their eyes. Again they come to meet me,- God! Wilt thou the thought forgive? If 'twere not for my dog and cat, I think I could not live. This heart is like a churchyard stone; Are all the friends I have; And yet my house is filled with friends,- But foes they seem, and are. What makes them hostile? IGNO RANCE; Then let me not despair. My heart grows faint when home I But oh! I sigh when home I come,--. come, May God the thought forgive! If 'twere not for my dog and cat, I think I could not live. I'd rather be a happy bird, Than, scorned and loathed, a king; But man should live while for him lives The meanest loving thing. Thou busy bee! how canst thou choose So far and wide to roam ? O blessed bee! thy glad wings say Thou hast a happy home! But I, when I come home,- O God! Wilt thou the thought forgive? If 'twere not for my dog and cat, I think I could not live. May God the thought forgive If 'twere not for my dog and cat I think I could not live. |