THE wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or the stormy north sends driving
forth

The blinding sleet and snaw: While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast the sky o'ercast,"

The joyless winter-day, Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May;

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,

My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!

FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow,

And the winter winds are weari-
ly sighing:

Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
And tread softly, and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.

Old year, you must not die;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.

He gave me a friend, and a true true-love,

And the New-year will take 'em away.

Old year, you must not go;

So long as you have been with

us,

Such joy as you have seen with

us,

Old year, you shall not go.

He frothed his bumpers to the brim;

A jollier year we shall not see.
But though his eyes are waxing dim,
And though his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest;
But all his merry quips are o'er:
To see him die, across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-
haste;

But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my
friend,

And the New-year blithe and
bold, my friend,
Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the

snow

I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro;
The cricket chirps; the light burns
low:

'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.

Shake hands, before you die.
Old year, we'll dearly rue for
you:

What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone.
Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.
There's a new foot on the floor,
my friend,

And a new face at the door, my
friend,

A new face at the door.

TENNYSON.

THE RIVULET.

AND I shall sleep; and on thy side,
As ages after ages glide,
Children their early sports shall try,
And pass to hoary age, and die.
But thou, unchanged from year to
year,

Gayly shalt play and glitter here:

Amid young flowers and tender grass

Thy endless infancy shalt pass;
And, singing down thy narrow glen,
Shalt mock the fading race of men.
BRYANT.

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?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men.
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow:
Society is all but rude

To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress'
name:

Little, alas! they know or heed
How far these beauties her exceed!
Fair trees! where'er your barks I
wound,

No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passion's

heat,

Love hither makes his best retreat.
The gods, who mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race;
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

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;

The nectarine, and curious peach, Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,

Withdraws into its happiness,

The mind, that ocean where each

kind

Does straight its own resemblance find,

Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds and other seas,
Annihilating all that's made

To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside,

My soul into the boughs does glide: There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings,

And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walked without a mate:

After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises are in one,
To live in paradise alone.

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;