Frederick Tennyson.

FIRST OF MARCH.

I.

HROUGH the gaunt woods the winds are shrilling

THRO

cold,

Down from the rifted rack the sunbeam pours,

Over the cold gray slopes, and stony moors;
The glimmering water-course, the eastern wold,
And over it the whirling sail o' the mill,

The lonely hamlet with its mossy spire,
The piled city smoking like a pyre,

Fetched out of shadow gleam with light as chill.

II.

The young leaves pine, their early promise stayed;
The Hope-deluded sorrow at the sight

Of the sweet blossoms by the treacherous light
Flattered to death, like tender love betrayed;
And stepdames frown, and aged virgins chide;
Relentless hearts put on their iron mood;
The hunter's dog lies dreaming of the wood,
And dozes barking by the ingle-side.

III.

Larks twitter, martens glance, and curs from far

Rage down the wind, and straight are heard no more;

Old wives peep out, and scold, and bang the door; And clanging clocks grow angry in the air;

Sorrow and care, perplexity and pain

Frown darker shadows on the homeless one,

And the gray beggar buffeting alone

Pleads in the howling storm, and pleads in vain.

IV.

The field-fires smoke along the champaign drear,
And drive before the north wind streaming down
Bleak hill, and furrow dark, and fallow brown;
Few living things along the land appear;
The weary horse looks out, his mane astray,
With anxious fetlock, and uneasy eye,
And sees the market-carts go madly by
With sidelong drivers reckless of the way.

V.

The sere beech-leaves, that trembled dry and red
All the long Winter on the frosty bough,
Or slept in quiet underneath the snow,
Fly off, like resurrections of the dead;
The horny ploughman, and his yoked ox,

Wink at the icy blasts; and beldames bold,
Stout, and red-hooded, flee before the cold;
And children's eyes are blinded by the shocks.

VI.

You cannot hear the waters for the wind;
The brook that foams, and falls, and bubbles by,
Hath lost its voice-but ancient steeples sigh,

And belfries moan—and crazy ghosts, confined
In dark courts, weep, and shake the shuddering gates,
And cry from points of windy pinnacles,

Howl through the bars, and 'plain among the bells, And shriek, and wail like voices of the Fates!

VII.

And who is He, that down the mountain-side,
Swift as a shadow flying from the sun,

Between the wings of stormy Winds doth run,
With fierce blue eyes, and eyebrows knit with pride;
Though now and then I see sweet laughters play

Upon his lips, like moments of bright heaven Thrown 'twixt the cruel blasts of morn and even, And golden locks beneath his hood of gray?

VIII.

Sometimes he turns him back to wave farewell
To his pale Sire with icy beard and hair;
Sometimes he sends before him through the air
cry
of welcome down a sunny dell;
And while the echoes are around him ringing,

A

Sudden the angry wind breathes low and sweet, Young violets show their blue eyes at his feet, And the wild lark is heard above him singing!

ΝΟΟΝ.

I.

THE winds are hushed, the clouds have ceased to sail, And lie like islands in the Ocean-day,

The flowers hang down their heads, and far away

A faint bell tinkles in a sun-drowned vale:

No voice but the cicala's whirring note

No motion but the grasshoppers that leap-
The reaper pours into his burning throat
The last drops of his flask, and falls asleep.

II.

The rippling flood of a clear mountain stream
Fleets by, and makes sweet babble with the stones;
The sleepy music with its murmuring tones
Lays me at noontide in Arcadian dream;

Hard by soft night of summer bowers is
With trellised vintage curtaining a cove

seen,

Whose diamond mirror paints the amber-green, The glooming bunches, and the boughs above.

III.

Finches, and moths, and gold-dropped dragon-flies
Dip in their wings, and a young village-daughter
Is bending with her pitcher o'er the water;
Her round arm imaged, and her laughing eyes,
And the fair brow amid the flowing hair,
Look like the Nymph's for Hylas coming up,
Pictured among the leaves, and fruitage there;
Or the boy's self a-drowning with his cup.

IV.

Up through the vines, her urn upon her head,
Her feet unsandalled, and her dark locks free,
She takes her way, a lovely thing to see,
And like a skylark starting from its bed,

A glancing meteor, or a tongue of flame,
Or virgin waters gushing from their springs,
Her hope flies up—her heart is pure of blame—
On wings of sound-she sings! oh how she sings

A DREAM OF AUTUMN.

I.

I HEARD a man of many winters say,

"Sometimes a sweet dream comes to me by night, Fluttering my heart with pulses of delight,

In glory bright as day;

II.

66 'Tis not the song of eve, the walks of morn,
Nor hearth-lit jokes, nor lamp-lit revelries,
That haunt mine ears, and flit across mine eyes,
And mock my heart forlorn.

III.

""Tis not the memory of my school-day years,
The hours, when I was a wild-hearted boy,
Of stormy sorrow, and of stormy joy,
That fills mine eyes with tears.

IV.

""Tis not the stir of manhood, nor the pain, The flood of passions, and the pomp of life,

The toils, the care, the triumphs, and the strife That move my soul again;

V.

"Ah! no, my prison-gates are open thrown, There is a brighter earth, a lovelier sun,

One face I see, I hear one voice, but one, 'Tis She, and She alone!