Of the sun going down to his rest,

In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,

They dance, there are three, as jocund as free,
While they dance on the calm river's breast.

Man and Maidens wheel,

They themselves make the reel,

And their music's a prey which they seize:
It plays not for them,-what matter? 'tis theirs;
And if they had care, it has scattered their cares,
While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please."

They dance not for me,

Yet mine is their glee!

Thus pleasure is spread through the earth

In stray gifts to be claimed by whoever shall find; Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind, Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.

The showers of the Spring

Rouse the birds, and they sing;

If the wind do but stir for his proper delight,
Each leaf, that and this, his neighbor will kiss;

Each wave, one and t'other, speeds after his brother;
They are happy, for that is their right!

10*

'MID crowded obelisks and urns

I sought the untimely grave of Burns;

Sons of the Bard, my heart still mourns With sorrow true,

And more would grieve, but that it turns Trembling to you!

Through twilight shades of good and ill Ye now are panting up life's hill,

And more than common strength and skill
Must ye display,

If ye would give the better will
Its lawful sway.

Hath Nature strung your nerves to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware!
But if the Poet's wit ye share,―
Like him can speed

The social hour,-of tenfold care
There will be need;

For honest men delight will take
To spare your failings for his sake,
Will flatter you,-and fool and rake

Your steps pursue;

And of

your

Father's name will make

A snare for you.

Far from their noisy haunts retire,
And add your voices to the choir
That sanctify the cottage fire
With service meet;

There seek the genius of your Sire,
His spirit greet;

Or where, 'mid "lonely heights and hows,"
He paid to Nature tuneful vows;
Or wiped his honorable brows

Bedewed with toil,

While reapers strove, or busy ploughs
Upturned the soil;

His judgment with benignant ray

Shall guide, his fancy cheer, your way;
But ne'er to a seductive lay

Nor deem that "light which leads astray,

Is light from Heaven."

Let no mean hope your souls enslave;

Be independent, generous, brave;
Your Father such example gave,

And such revere;

But be admonished by his grave,

And think, and fear!

HUMANITY, delighting to behold

A fond reflection of her own decay,
Hath painted Winter like a traveller old,
Propped on a staff, and, through the sullen day,
In hooded mantle, limping o'er the plain,

As though his weakness were disturbed by pain:
Or, if a juster fancy should allow

An undisputed symbol of command,
The chosen sceptre is a withered bough,
Infirmly grasped within a palsied hand.
These emblems suit the helpless and forlorn;
But mighty Winter the device shall scorn.

For he it was, dread Winter! who beset,
Flinging round van and rear his ghastly net,
That host, when from the regions of the Pole
They shrunk, insane ambition's barren goal,—
That host, as huge and strong as e'er defied
Their God, and placed their trust in human pride!
As fathers persecute rebellious sons,

He smote the blossoms of their warrior youth;
He called on Frost's inexorable tooth

Life to consume in Manhood's firmest hold;

Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly runs;

For why,-unless for liberty enrolled

And sacred home,—ah! why should hoary Age be bold?

Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed,

But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind,

Which from Siberian caves the Monarch freed,
And sent him forth, with squadrons of his kind,
And bade the Snow their ample backs bestride,
And to the battle ride.

No pitying voice commands a halt,
No courage can repel the dire assault;
Distracted, spiritless, benumbed, and blind,
Whole legions sink, and, in one instant, find
Burial and death: look for them, and descry,
When morn returns, beneath the clear, blue sky,
A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy!

OUR LADY OF THE SNOW.

MEEK Virgin Mother, more benign
Than fairest Star, upon the height
Of thy own mountain* set to keep
Lone vigils through the hour of sleep,
What eye can look upon thy shrine
Untroubled at the sight?

These crowded offerings, as they hang
In sight of misery relieved,

* Mount Righi.