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. Old year, you shall not die; He was full of joke and jest; But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my And the New-year blithe and How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands, before you die. What is it we can do for you? His face is growing sharp and thin. And waiteth at the door. And a new face at the door, my A new face at the door. TENNYSON. THE RIVULET. AND I shall sleep; and on thy side, Gayly shalt play and glitter here: Amid young flowers and tender grass Thy endless infancy shalt pass; 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? To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen Little, alas! they know or heed No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. 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, 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 And gilded them with sheets of 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 |