A WINTER'S WALK

HE night was winter in its roughest mood;

THE

The morning sharp and clear. But now at

noon

Upon the southern side of the slant hills,

And where the woods fence off the northern blast,
The season smiles, resigning all its rage,

And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue
Without a cloud, and white without a speck
The dazzling splendour of the scene below.
Again the harmony comes o'er the vale;
And through the trees I view th' embattled tower
Whence all the music. I again perceive
The soothing influence of the wafted strains,
And settle in soft musings as I tread

The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms,
Whose outspread branches overarch the glade.
The roof, though movable through all its length
As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed,
And, intercepting in their silent fall

The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.
No noise is here, or none that hinders thought.
The redbreast warbles still, but is content
With slender notes, and more than half suppressed :
Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light
From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes
From many a twig the pendent drops of ice
That tinkle in the withered leaves below.
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,
Charms more than silence. Meditation here
May think down hours to moments. Here the heart
May give a useful lesson to the head,

And learning wiser grow without his books.

COWPER

THE FIRST NOWELL

HE first Nowell the angel did say

THE

Was to certain poor shepherds in fields as
they lay.

In fields where they lay keeping their sheep,
On a cold winter's night that was so deep.
Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell,

Born is the King of Israel.

They looked up and saw a star
Shining in the East, beyond them far,
And to the earth it gave great light,
And so it continued both day and night.

And by the light of that same star
Three Wise Men came from country far,
To seek for a King was their intent,
And to follow the star wherever it went.

This Star drew nigh to the North-West,
O'er Bethlehem it took its rest,
And there it did both stop and stay,
Right over the place where Jesus lay.

Then entered in those Wise Men three
Full reverently upon their knee,
And offered there, in His Presence,
Their gold and myrrh, and frankincense.

Then let us all with one accord,

Sing praises to our Heavenly Lord,

That hath made Heaven and earth of nought
And with His Blood mankind hath bought.
Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell,

Born is the King of Israel.

Old Carol

I

MY PSALM

MOURN no more my vanished years:
Beneath a tender rain,

An April rain of smiles and tears,

My heart is young again.

The west winds blow, and singing low,
I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward nor behind
I look in hope or fear:
But grateful take the good I find,
The best of now and here.

The airs of spring may never play
Among the ripening corn,
Nor freshness of the flowers of May
Blow through the Autumn morn.
Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look
Through fringed lids to heaven,
And the pale aster in the brook
Shall see its image given.

The woods shall wear their robes of praise,
The south wind softly sigh,

And sweet calm days in golden haze
Melt down the amber sky.

And so the shadows fall apart,
And so the west winds play:
And all the windows of my heart
I open to the day.

WHITTIER

SUNRISE

A

DAY!

Faster and more fast,

O'er night's brim day boils at last :

Boils, pure gold, o'er the cloud-cup's brim
Where spurting and suppressed it lay,
For not a froth-flake touched the rim
Of yonder gap in the solid grey
Of the eastern cloud an hour away;

But forth one wavelet, then another curled,
Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed,
Rose, reddened, and in its seething breast
Flickered in bounds, grew cold, then overflowed

the world.

ROBERT BROWNING

I

HELD it truth with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.

But who shall so forecast the years
And find in loss a gain to match?

Or reach a hand through time to catch
The far-off interest of tears?

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drowned,
Let darkness keep her raven gloss :
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss,
To dance with death, to beat the ground,

Than that the victor hours should scorn
The long result of love, and boast,
"Behold the man that loved and lost,
But all he was is overworn".

TENNYSON