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Have touched with magic breath the chang- A golden glory ; yonder, where the oak ing leaves;
Stands monarch of the forest, and the ash And now, as wanders the dilating eye
Is girt with flame-like parasite, and broad Across the varied landscape, circling far, The dog wood spreads beneath, a rolling flood What gorgeousness, what blazonry, what pomp Of deepest crimson; and afar, where looms Of colors, bursts upon the ravished sight! The gnarled gum, a cloud of bloodiest red ! Here, where the maple rears its yellow crest,
WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.
And the year,
A barren realm of withered fields,
Bleak woods of fallen leaves,
The palest morns that ever dawned,
The dreariest of eves.
(From "The Task," Book IV.) WINTER, ruler of the inverted year, A prisoner in the yet undawning east, Thy scattered hair with sleet-like ashes Shortening his journey between morn and noon, filled,
And hurrying bim, impatient of his stay, Thy breath congealed upon thy lips, thy Down to the rosy west; but kindly still cheeks
Compensating his loss with added hours Fringed with a beard made white with other of social converse and instructive ease, snows
And gathering, at short notice, in one group Than those of age, thy forehead wrapped in The family dispersed, and fixing thought, clouds,
Not less dispersed by daylight and its cares. A leafless branch thy scepter, and thy throne I crown thee king of intimate delights, A sliding car, indebted to no wheels,
Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness, But urged by storms along its slippery way, And all the comforts that the lowly roof I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, Of undisturbed Retirement, and the hours And dreaded as thou art! Thou hold'st the Of long uninterrupted evening know. sun
Who were for a time. and now are not; TAND here by my side and turn, I pray,
Like these fair children of cloud and frost, On the lake below, thy gentle eyes;
That glitter a moment and then are lost,
Flake after flake,
All lost in the dark and silent lake!
Yet look again, for the clouds divide ;
A gleam of blue on the water lies;
And far away, on the mountain side,
A sunbeam falls from the opening skies. See how in a living swarm they come
But the hurrying host that flew between From the chambers beyond that misty veil; The cloud and water, no more is seen; Some hover awhile in air, and some
Flake after flake, Rush prone from the sky like summer bail. At rest in the dark and silent lake. All dropping swiftly or settling slow,
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Meet and are still in the depths below;
Flake after flake Dissolved in the dark and silent lake.
LOST IN THE SNOW. Here, delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud,
(“From Winter.") floating
the snows crowd
In his own loose-revolving fields the swain That whiten by night the milky way; There, broader and burlier masses fall;
Disastered stands; sees other hills ascend, The sullen water buries them all ;
Of unknown joyless brow; and other scenes, Flake after flake,
Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain;
Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid All drowned in the dark and silent lake.
Beneath the formless wild; but wanders on
From hill to dale, still more and more astray, And some, as on tender wings they glide Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps,
From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, Stung with the thoughts of home; the Are joined in their fall, and side by side
thoughts of home Come clinging along their unsteady way; Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor forth As friend with friend, or husband with wife, In many a vain attempt. How sinks bis soul! Makes hand in hand the passage of life; What black despair, what horror fills his heart! Each mated flake
When for the dusky spot which fancy Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake.
His tufted cottage, rising through the snow, Lo! while we are gazing in swifter haste
He meets the roughness of the middle waste, Stream down the snows, till the air is white, Far from the track and blest abode of man; As, myriads by myriads madly chased,
While round him night resistless closes fast, They fling themselves from their shadowy And every tempest, howling o'er his head, height.
Renders tbe savage wilderness more wild. The fair, frail creatures of middle sky,
Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, What speed they make, with their grave so
Of covered pits, unfathomably deep, nigh!
A dire descent, beyond the power of frost; Flake after flake,
Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge, To lie in the dark and silent lake!
Smoothed up with snow; and what is land,
What water, of the still unfrozen spring, I see in thy gentle eyes a tear;
In the loose marsh or solitary lake, They turn to me in sorrowful thought; Where the fresh fountain from the bottom Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear,