WOODS IN WINTER. XVII. When winter winds are piercing chill, And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill, That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes. Where, twisted round the barren oak, Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river's gradual tide, Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day. But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear I listen, and it cheers me long. Longfellow. Into ELEGIACS. XVII. When the blasts sweep the earth with wintry cold, (and) the more frequent breeze steals away the beauty of the shrubbery. Then silent I traverse the hill with solemn foot, where the lonely valley rises in a brow. Not with slow steps, where the raised (points) of the plain stretch, through the dark places of the deserted thicket I rove. Where the sunbeam intertwined would chastely play in the boughs; it bears joy through the close wilderness of the wood. There the vine, around the branches of the knotted oak, united shines beneath the summer sun. And the light winds of summer broke the silence, where the icicle was yet hanging hard with cold. There stand as it were mute urns, the fountains being frozen, from these drop by drop the sluggish streams fall. The iron shoes resound along the covered river; sounds of gladness re-echo through the spinnies. But these beauteous things have passed from my eyes, when the melting voices of birds rang through the grove. The Zephyrs gently blew, and the woods were green; and the simple Muse fell not at fall of day. But artless melody is brought hither by the breeze, which the thickets and close coverts bear; and gathering blasts accord with hoarse murmur, the nodding reeds give and repeat the sounds. Ye keen winds! ye roaring blasts of winter! your murmurs fall stricken on accustomed ears; stricken they fall; when the new year commences its course, it is something delightful, with which my own jour ney may be cheered. XVIII. Venus! thy eternal sway All the race of man obey; Man, and every race, that earth Into ALCAICS. XVIII. Relying on boundless power, O Venus! you wield your sceptre eternal in ages; and gods and mortal bands you alone rule with supreme sway. Whom Cupid following upon fans his wings painted with a thousand colours, as hurried in daring flight he traverses the air of heaven. Now he roves D among the lovely gardens of the country; now where the gentle whisper of Ocean gliding beneath murmurs among the rocks. Howsoever the gilded boy rushes down upon earth from heaven with the power of madness, the human race, the fishes, the mountain wild beasts confess him Lord. Wheresoever the sun enlightens the habitable regions of the world, all things feel the arts of the Spoiler Son, and the wiles of the Paphian Mother. XIX. Where is the sea ?—I languish here— I miss the voice of waves-the first The measured chime-the thundering burst Where is my own blue sea ? Oh! rich your myrtles' breath may rise, Soft, soft, your winds may be: I hear the shepherd's mountain flute, Mrs. Hemans. XIX. Into ELEGIACS. O Sea thou art away, I languish in the boundary of midland; O where with thy blue waves Sea art thou away? Hither and thither boats were flitting with rapid course, and free sails were roving in the free south wind. My mind longs for the voices of the waves, of old that sound brought joy to (me) a child. Whether they whispered, or roared like the thunder, O with thy blue waves where Sea art thou away? What that the myrtle groves shed a scented brightness, what that the breeze too falls gently with its breath. Yet my heart dying within fails to (me) torn away. O where with thy blue waves Sea art thou away? From the top of the mountain the pipe of the shepherd resounds, and the tree trembles stricken by the summer winds. Yet to these the echo of my deaf mind answers nothing; O where with thy blue waves Sea art thou away? XX. Lord of the vale! astounding Flood! Quakes-conscious of thy power; And yet how fair the rural scene! Beneficent as strong; Pleased in refreshing dews to steep The little trembling flowers that peep Wordsworth. |