MAY MORNING. OW the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, The flowery May, who from her green lap And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose Hail, beauteous May! that doth inspire 'HE melancholy days are come, the saddest of Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood In orighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold November rain Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow : But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side: In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. NOVEMBER. HE mellow year is hasting to its close The little birds have almost sung their last, Their small notes twitter in the dreary blastThat shrill-piped harbinger of early snows; The patient beauty of the scentless rose, Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed, Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past, And makes a little summer where it grows. In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day The dusky waters shudder as they shine; The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define; And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine. HARTLEY COLERIDGE. W WHAT THE WINDS BRING. HICH is the wind that brings the cold? Which is the wind that brings the heat? When the south begins to blow. Which is the wind that brings the rain? The east-wind, Arty; and farmers know That cows come shivering up the lane, When the east begins to blow. Which is the wind that brings the flowers? EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN, In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north-wind's masonry. And when his hours are numbered, and the world RALPH WALDO EMERSON. IT SNOWS. T snows!" cries the schoolboy-"Hurrah!" and his shout Is ringing through the parlor and hall, While swift as the wing of a swallow, he' out, And his playmates have answered his call: Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy, Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs, While health and the riches of nature are theirs. "It snows!" sighs the imbecile—“Ah!” and his breath Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight; Has quickened his steed's lagging pace; For bright through the tempest his own home ap peared Ay, though leagues intervened. he can see; There's the clear, glowing hearth, and the table pre pared, And his wife with their babes at her knee. Blest thought! how it lightens the grief-laden hour, From her mirror to watch the flakes fall; Like the first rose of summer, her dimpled cheek burns, There are visions of conquest, of splendor, and mirth, But the tintings of hope, on this storm-beaten earth, Turn, turn thee to heaven, fair maiden, for bliss ; "It snows!" cries the widow-"O God!" and her Have stifled the voice of her prayer ; Its burden ye'll read in her tear-swollen eyes, 'Tis night-and her fatherless ask her for bread- Even as our cloudy fancies take This is the poem of the air, Slowly in silent syllables recorded; HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THE SLEIGH RIDE. 'N January, when down the dairy the cream and clabber freeze, When snow-drifts cover the fences over, we farmers take our ease. And she trusts, till her dark heart adds horror to At night we rig the team, and bring the cutter out; dread, And she lays on her last chip of wood. Poor sufferer! that sorrow thy God only knows 'Tis a pitiful lot to be poor when it snows! P SARAH JOSEPHA HALE. THE CRICKETS. IPE, little minstrels of the waning year, In gentle concert pipe! Then fill it, fill it, fill it, fill it, and heap the furs about. Here friends and cousins dash up by dozens, and sleighs at least a score ; There John and Molly, behind, are jolly-Nell rides with me, before. All down the village street we range us in a row: Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, and over the crispy snow! Pipe the warm noons; the mellow harvest The windows glisten, the old folks listen to hear the near; The apples dropping ripe; The tempered sunshine, and the softened shade; The sweet, sad hush on nature's gladness laid; Pipe tenderly the passing of the year; The summer's brief reprieve; The dry husk rustling round the yellow ear; Pipe the untroubled trouble of the year; Pipe your unceasing melancholy cheer; HARRIET MCEWEN KIMBALL. SNOW-FLAKES. UT of the bosom of the air, sleigh-bells pass; The fields grow whiter, the stars are brighter, the road as smooth as glass, Our muffled faces burn, the clear north wind blows cold, The girls all nestle, nestle, nestle, each in her lover's hold. Through bridge and gateway we're shooting straightway, their toll-man was too slow! He'll listen after our song and laughter as over the hill we go. The girls cry, "Fie! for shame!" their cheeks and lips are red, And so with kisses, kisses, kisses, they take the toll instead. Still follow, follow! across the hollow the tavern fronts the road. Whoa, now! all steady! the host is ready-he knows the country mode! Out of the cloud-folds of her garments The irons are in the fire, the hissing flip is got; shaken, Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent and soft and slow Descends the snow. So pour and sip it, sip it, sip it, and sip it while 'tis hot. Push back the tables, and from the stables bring Tom, the fiddler, in; All take your piaces, and make your graces, and let the dance begin. The girls are beating time to hear the music sound; Now foot it, foot it, foot it, foot it, and swing your partners round. Last couple toward the left! all forward! cotillion's through, let's wheel: First tune the fiddle, then down the middle in old Virginía reel. Play monkey musk to close, then take the "long chassé," While in to supper, supper, supper, the landlord leads the way. The bells are ringing, the hostlers bringing the cutters up anew; The beasts are neighing, too long we're staying, the night is half way through. Wrap close the buffalo robes, we're all aboard once more; Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, away from the tavern door. So follow, follow, by hill and hollow, and swiftly homeward glide. What midnight splendor! how warm and tender the maiden by your side! The sleigh drop far apart, her words are soft and low; Now, if you love her, love her, love her, 'tis safe to tell her so. EDMUND CLARENCE Stedman. CHRISTMAS IN THE WOODS. ROM under the boughs in the snow-clad wood Still happy are they, And their looks are gay, And they frisk it from bough to bough; Since berries bright red Hang over their head, A right goodly feast, I trow. There, under the boughs, in their wintry dress, Haps many a tender greeting; Blithe hearts have met, and the soft caress Hath told the delight of meeting. Though winter hath come To his woodland home, There is mirth with old Christmas cheer, For 'neath the light snow Is the fruit-fraught bough, And each to his love is near. Yes! under the boughs, scarce seen, nestle they, Those children of song together N the barn the tenant cock, Swiftly from the mountain's brow, Plaintive where she prates at night, From the balmy sweets, uncloyed, Trickling through the creviced rock, (Ere the harvest hopes are ripe), Anxious; whilst the huntsman's horn, Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe. Sweet, O sweet, the warbling throng Echoes to the rising day. JOHN CUNNINGHAM. A CALM EVE. OOK on these waters, with how soft a kiss They woo the pebbled shore ! then steal away, Like wanton lovers-but to come again, And die in music! There, the bending skies See all their stars—and the beach-loving trees, Osiers and willows, and the watery flowers, That wreathe their pale roots round the ancient stones, Make pictures of themselves! GEORGE CROLY. |