FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are weari- Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, Old year, you must not die; He lieth still: he doth not move: And the New-year will take 'em A jollier year we shall not see. Old year, you shall not die; He was full of joke and jest; But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my And the New-year blithe and How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. "Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands, before you die. What is it we can do for you? His face is growing sharp and thin. And waiteth at the door. And a new face at the door, my A new face at the door. TENNYSON. THE RIVULET. AND I shall sleep; and on thy side, Amid young flowers and tender grass Thy endless infancy shalt pass; THE GARDEN. How vainly men themselves amaze, To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labors see Crowned from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close, To weave the garlands of repose! Fair Quiet, have I found thee And Innocence, thy sister dear? To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name: Little, alas! they know or heed No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walked without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new, Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run, And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we! How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers? MARVELL. LACHINY GAIR. AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses! In you let the minions of luxury rove; Restore me the rocks where the snowflake reposes, For still they are sacred to freedom and love: Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, Round their white summits though elements war, Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains, I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Gair. Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wandered; My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; On chieftains long perished, my memory pondered, As daily I strode through the pinecovered glade; I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; For Fancy was cheered by traditional story Disclosed by the natives of dark "Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale: Round Loch na Gair, while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car; Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers: They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Gair. "Ill-starred, though brave, did no visions foreboding Tell you that Fate had forsaken your cause?" Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, Victory crowned not your fall with applause; Still were you happy; in death's early slumber You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar, To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him. And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call, with quivering peals, And long halloos and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled; concourse wild Of mirth and jocund din! And when it chanced That pauses of deep silence mocked his skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received Into the bosom of the steady lake. WORDSWORTH. THE EARTH-SPIRIT. I HAVE Woven shrouds of air And gilded them with sheets of I fall upon the grass like love's first kiss; I make the golden flies and their fine bliss; I paint the hedgerows in the lane, And clover white and red the pathways bear; I laugh aloud in sudden gusts of rain To see the ocean lash himself in air; I throw smooth shells and weeds along the beach, And pour the curling waves far o'er the glossy reach; Swing birds' nests in the elms, and shake cool moss Along the aged beams, and hide their loss. The very broad rough stones I gladden too; Some willing seeds I drop along their sides, Nourish the generous plant with freshening dew, Till there where all was waste, true joy abides. The peaks of aged mountains, with |