Woods in Winter.

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WOODS IN WINTER.

HEN 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,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.

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
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,-

I listen, and it cheers me long.

LONGFELLOW.

A MORNING SONG.

ARK-hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin

To ope their golden eyes;

With every thing that pretty bin:

My lady sweet, arise;

Arise, arise!

'Gins to thicken, and the sun

Already his great course has run.
See the dew-drops how they kiss
Every little flower that is,
Hanging on their velvet heads,
Like a rope of crystal beads.
See the heavy clouds low falling,
And bright Hesperus down calling

The Evening Cloud.

The dead night from underground,
At whose rising, mists unsound,
Damps and vapours fly apace,
Hovering o'er the wanton face
Of these pastures, where they come
Striking dead both bud and bloom.
Therefore from such danger lock
Every one of his loved flock;
And let your dogs lie loose without,
Lest the wolf come, as a scout
From the mountain, and ere day
Bear a kid or lamb away;
Or the crafty, thievish fox
Break upon your simple flocks.

To secure yourselves from these,
Be not too secure in ease.

So shall you good shepherds prove,

And deserve your master's love.

Now, good night! may sweetest slumbers

And soft silence fall in numbers

On your eyelids: so, farewell;

Thus I end my evening knell.

J. FLETCHER.

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THE EVENING CLOUD.

CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,

A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow,
Long had I watched the glory moving on,
O'er the still radiance of the lake below.
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow,

Even in its very motion there was rest,
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west;

Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given. And by the breath of mercy made to roll

Right onward to the golden gates of heaven; Where to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,

And tells to man his glorious destinies.

NIGHT.

JOHN WILSON.

IGHT is the time for rest,

How sweet when labours close,

To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose;

Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head

Upon our own delightful bed.

Night is the time for dreams,

The gay romance of life;

When truth that is and truth that seems,

Blend in fantastic strife.

Ah! visions less beguiling far

Than waking dreams by daylight are.

Night is the time for toil,

To plough the classic field;
Intent to find the buried spoil,

Its wealthy furrows yield:
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang, or heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep

To wet with unseen tears

Night.

Those graves of memory, where sleep
The joys of other years;

Hopes that were angels in their birth,
But finished young, like things on earth!

Night is the time to watch

On ocean's dark expanse,
To hail the Pleiades, or catch
The full moon's earliest glance,
That brings into the homesick mind
All we have loved, and left behind.

Night is the time for care,

Brooding on hours misspent ;
To see the spectre of despair
Come to our lonely tent;

Like Brutus 'midst his slumbering host
Startled by Cæsar's stalwart ghost.

Night is the time to muse

Then from the eye the soul

Takes flight, and with expanding views,

Beyond the starry pole

Descries, athwart the abyss of night,

The dawn of uncreated light!

Night is the time to pray—

Our Saviour oft withdrew

To desert mountains far away;

So will his followers do;

Steal through the throng to haunts untrod,

And hold communion with their God.

Night is the time for death;

When all around is peace,

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