Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain:

Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid

Beneath the formless wild, but wanders on

From hill to dale, still more and more astray:

Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps,

Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor forth

In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul!

What black despair, what horror, fills his heart!

When, for the dusky spot which fancy feigned

His tufted cottage rising through the

snow,

He meets the roughness of the middle waste,

In vain for him th'officious wife prepares

The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm;

In vain his little children, peeping

out

Into the mingling storm, demand their sire,

With tears of artless innocence. Alas!

Nor wife, nor children, more shall he behold;

Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve

The deadly Winter seizes; shuts up

sense,

And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold,

Lays him along the snows a stiffened corse,

Stretched out, and bleaching in the northern blast.

THOMSON.

A jollier year we shall not see.
But though his eyes are waxing dim,
And though his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest;
But all his merry quips are o'er:
To see him die, across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-
haste;

But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my
friend,

And the New-year blithe and
bold, my friend,
Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the

snow

I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro;
The cricket chirps; the light burns
low:

'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.

Shake hands, before you die.
Old year, we'll dearly rue for
you:

What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone.
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.
There's a new foot on the floor,
my friend,

And a new face at the door, my
friend,

A new face at the door.

TENNYSON.

THE RIVULET.

AND I shall sleep; and on thy side,
As ages after ages glide,
Children their early sports shall try,
And pass to hoary age, and die.
But thou, unchanged from year to
year,

Gayly shalt play and glitter here:

Amid young flowers and tender grass

Thy endless infancy shalt pass;
And, singing down thy narrow glen,
Shalt mock the fading race of men.
BRYANT.

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 here,

And Innocence, thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men.
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow:
Society is all but rude

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
How far these beauties her exceed!
Fair trees! where'er your barks I
wound,

No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passion's

heat,

Love hither makes his best retreat.
The gods, who mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race;
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

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,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises are in one,
To live in paradise alone.

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.

LACHIN Y GAIR.

AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!

In you let the minions of luxury

rove;

"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,

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
In a loom of hurrying light,
For the trees which blossoms
bear,

And gilded them with sheets of
bright;

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