178 EVENING IN WINTER Он, Winter, ruler of the inverted year, Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes filled, Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fringed with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in clouds.— A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A sliding car indebted to no wheels, But urged by storms along the slippery way,- Of long uninterrupted evening know. No rattling wheels stop short before these gates; Of sounding an alarm, assault these doors Till the street rings; no stationary steeds Cough their own knell, while heedless of the sound But here the needle plies its busy task, A wreath that cannot fade, of flowers that blow Made vocal for the amusement of the rest; The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds The dangers we have 'scaped, the broken snare, Oh, evenings worthy of the gods! exclaimed [From Book IV, THE TASK.] THE twentieth year is well-nigh past, Ah, would that this might be the last! My Mary! Thy spirits have a fainter flow, I see thee daily weaker grow; 'Twas my distress that brought thee low, My Mary! Thy needles, once a shining store, My Mary! For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil My Mary! But well thou playedst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art Have wound themselves about this heart, My Mary! Thy indistinct expressions seem Like language uttered in a dream; Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, My Mary! Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, For, could I view nor them nor thee, Partakers of thy sad decline, Such feebleness of limbs thou provest, And still to love, though prest with ill, My Mary! But ah! by constant heed I know, Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe, And should my future lot be cast With much resemblance of the past, Thy worn-out heart will break at last, My Mary! 200 ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE Он, that those lips had language! Life has passed O welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bidst me honour with an artless song, But gladly, as the precept were her own: A momentary dream that thou art she. My mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then life's journey just begun? Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss: Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in blissAh, that maternal smile! It answers-Yes. I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! But was it such? It was.-Where thou art gone Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived. By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, |