shining,

Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,

Buds that open only to decay; Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous

Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,

How akin they are to human things.

And with childlike, credulous affec

MIDNIGHT MASS FOR THE DYING YEAR.

YES, the year is growing old,

And his eye is pale and bleared! Death, with frosty hand and cold, Plucks the old man by the beard, Sorely, -sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling,

Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,
It is a sound of woe,

A sound of woe!
Through woods and mountain passes
The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing, Pray for this poor soul,
Pray,-Pray!"

And the hooded clouds, like friars,

Tell their beads in drops of rain, And patter their doleful prayers; But their prayers are all in vain,

All in vain!

There he stands in the foul weather, The foolish, fond Old Year,

heather,

Like weak, despised Lear,

A king,-a king!

Then comes the summer-like day,

Bids the old man rejoice!

His joy his last! O, the old man gray

Loveth that ever-soft voice,

Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith,-

To the voice gentle and low Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,-

"Pray do not mock me so!

Do not laugh at me!'

And now the sweet day is dead;

Cold in his arms it lies;

No stain from its breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,

No mist or stain !

Then, too, the Old Year dieth,
And the forests utter a moan,
Like the voice of one who crieth
In the wilderness alone,
"Vex not his ghost!

Gathering and sounding on, The storm-wind from Labrador, The wind Euroclydon,

The storm-wind!

Howl! howl! and from the forest
Sweep the red leaves away!
Would the sins that thou abhorrest,
O Soul! could thus decay,

And be swept away!

For there shall come a mightier blast,
There shall be a darker day;

And the stars from heaven down-cast,
Like red leaves be swept away!
Kyrie, eleyson!
Christe, eleyson!

L'ENVOI.

YE voices, that arose

After the Evening's close,

And whispered to my restless heart repose!

Go, breathe it in the ear

Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, "Be of good cheer !"

Ye sounds, so low and calm,
That in the groves of balm
Seemed to me like an angel's psalm!

Go, mingle yet once more
With the perpetual roar

Of the pine forest, dark and hoar !

Tongues of the dead, not lost,
But speaking from death's frost,
Like fiery tongues at Pentecost!
Glimmer, as funeral lamps,
Amid the chills and damps

Of the vast plain where Death encamps!

AN APRIL DAY.

WHEN the warm sun that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,

"Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs

The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well,

When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,

Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell

The coming-on of storms.

From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance and thrives;

Though stricken to the heart with Winter's cold,

The drooping tree revives. The softly-warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and coloured wings

Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along

The forest openings.

When the bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws

Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, And wide the upland glows.

And when the eve is born,

In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,

Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn,

And twinkles many a star.