BRAVE Winter and I shall ever agree,
Though a stern and frowning gaffer is he.
I like to hear him, with hail and rain,
Come tapping against the window pane;
I joy to see him come marching forth
Begirt with the icicle gems of the north;
But I like him best when he comes bedight
In his velvet robes of stainless white.
A cheer for the snow the drifting snow!
Smoother and purer than beauty's brow!
The creature of thought scarce likes to tread
On the delicate carpet so richly spread.
With feathery wreaths the forest is bound,
And the hills are with glittering diadems crowned
"Tis the fairest scene we can have below.
Sing, welcome, then, to the drifting snow!
The urchins gaze with eloquent eye
To see the flakes go dancing by.
In the thick of the storm how happy are they
To welcome the first deep snowy day!
Shouting and pelting — what bliss to fall
Half-smothered beneath the well-aimed ball!
Men of four-score, did ye ever know
Such sport as ye had in the drifting snow?
I'm true to my theme, for I loved it well.
When the gossiping nurse would sit and tell
The tale of the geese though hardly believed
I doubted and questioned the words that deceived.
I rejoice in it still, and love to see
The ermine mantle on tower and tree.
"Tis the fairest scene we can have below.
Hurrah! then, hurrah! for the drifting snow!
HE sprung to life in a crazy tent,
Where the cold wind whistled through many a rent;
Rude was the voice, and rough were the hands
That soothed his wailings and swathed his bands.
No tissue of gold, no lawn was there,
No snowy robe for the new-born heir;
But the mother wept, and the father smiled
With heartfelt joy o'er their gipsy child.
He grows like the young oak, healthy and broad,
With no home but the forest, no bed but the sward
Half naked, he wades in the limpid stream,
Or dances about in the scorching beam.
The dazzling glare of the banquet sheen
Hath never fallen on him, I ween;
But fragments are spread and the wood-fire piled,
And sweet is the meal of the gipsy child.
He wanders at large, while maidens admire
His raven hair and his eyes of fire;
They mark his cheek's rich tawny hue,
With the deep carnation flushing through:
He laughs aloud, and they covet his teeth,
All pure and white as their own pearl wreath ;
And the courtly dame and damsel mild
Will turn to gaze on the gipsy child.
Up with the sun, he is roving along,
Whistling to mimic the blackbird's song ;
He wanders at nightfall to startle the owl,
And is baying again to the watch-dog's howl.
His limbs are unshackled, his spirit is bold,
He is free from the evils of fashion and gold
His dower is scant and his life is wild,
But kings might envy the gipsy child.
THE orb I like is not the one
That dazzles with its lightning gleam, That dares to look upon the sun
As though it challenged brighter beam.
That orb may sparkle, flash, and roll;
Its fire may blaze, its shaft may fly;
But not for me: I prize the soul
That slumbers in a quiet eye.
There's something in its placid shade That tells of calm unworldly thought; Hope may be crowned, or joy delayed No dimness steals, no ray is caught: Its pensive language seems to say,
"I know that I must close and die; And death itself, come when it may, Can hardly change the quiet eye.
There's meaning in its steady glance,
Of gentle blame or praising love,
That makes me tremble to advance
A word that meaning might reprove.
The haughty threat, the fiery look,
My spirit proudly can defy;
But never yet could meet and brook
The upbraiding of a quiet eye.
There's firmness in its even light,
That augurs of a breast sincere :
And, oh! take watch how ye excite
That firmness till it yield a tear.
Some bosoms give an easy sigh,
Some drops of grief will freely start; But that which sears the quiet eye
Hath its deep fountain in the heart.
HERE'S a song for old Dobbin, whose temper and worth Are too rare to be spurned on the score of his birth. He's a creature of trust, and what more should we heed? 'Tis deeds and not blood make the man and the steed.
He was bred in the forest, and turned on the plain,
Where the thistle-burs clung to his fetlocks and mane.
All ugly and rough, not a soul could espy
The spark of good-humor that dwelt in his eye.
The summer had waned, and the autumn months rolled Into those of stern winter, all dreary and cold;
But the north wind might whistle, the snow-flake might dance,
The colt of the common was left to his chance.
Half starved and half frozen, the hail-storm would pelt,
Till his shivering limbs told the pangs that he felt;
But we pitied the brute, and, though laughed at by all,
We filled him a manger and gave him a stall.
He was fond as a spaniel, and soon he became
The pride of the herd-boy, the pet of the dame.
You may judge of his fame, when his price was a
But we christened him Dobbin, and called him our own.
He grew out of colthood, and, lo! what a change!
The knowing ones said it was mortally strange;
|