FEBRUARY EDITED BY OSCAR FAY ADAMS SLOWLY, with shaking staff and snowy stole, His frosty-bearded lips wild muttering, Gaunt dying Winter grimly plods along; What sound has thus disturbed his peace of soul ? Ah ! he has caught a presage of the Spring, The faint far echo of a throstle's song ! CLINTON SCOLLARD. BOSTON D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY FRANKLIN AND HAWLEY STREETS COPYRIGHT, 1886, BY D. LOTHROP AND COMPANY. BOSTON : COMPOSITION AND ELECTROTYPING BY C. P. MATTOON AND COMPANY. PREFACE. WITH the lengthening days which distinguish the third month of winter from its predecessor, come ardent desires for spring, and longings for the time of birds and flowers. An adventurous swallow too early flying from the south, a vision of snowdrops in the snow, a day of April warmth lit by a slant February sun, are all hailed with pleasure as harbingers of a more gracious season on its northward way. It is this attitude of the mind in February which the editor has endeavored to illustrate in this number of Through the Year with the Poets. To many persons, however, the Valentine season is the central fact of the month ; and the editor, recognizing this, has therefore included several of the best poems which have been inspired by this tender as well as fer- tile theme. One of these, which will be found on the forty-seventh page, now appears for the first time, having been written for this volume by Mr. Frank Dempster Sherman, a name most pleasantly known among those of younger American poets. Mr. Clinton Scollard's graceful lines upon the title-page were written for their present niche ; and " February," by Mrs. Jane G. Austin, 20415SH IV PREFACE. is also an original contribution to the book. "The February Hush," by Col. T. W. Higginson, though writ- ten some years ago, is now first printed by the kind permission of the author. The editor again acknowledges the many favors re- ceived from various authors in the course of his work, and the publishers express their thanks to Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co. ; Chas. Scribner's Sons ; J. B. Lippincott Co. ; Cupples, Upham & Co. ; Ticknor & Co. ; Lee & Shepard ; Roberts Brothers ; and the Century Company, for permission to include the several poems of which they control the copyright; and also to Miss Emily C. Weeks for the use of two poems by her brother, the late Robert Kelley Weeks ; and Mr. Parke Godwin for the use of two poems by Mr. Bryant. CAMBRIDGE, MASS., January 14, 1886. CONTENTS. PAGE THE WINTER SLEEP . . . William Canton ... i FEBRUARY Henry W. Longfellow . 2 ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM THE IST OF FEBRUARY . Samuel Taylor Coleridge . 2 CANDLEMAS Mrs. Harriet Spofford . 3 WINTER Obadiah C. Auringer . . 4 FEBRUARY Edgar Fawcett .... 4 IN WINTER James Newton Matthews, 5 A GLEE FOR WINTER . . Alfred Domett .... 5 FEBRUARY Henry G. Hewlett ... 6 WINTER Mrs. Julia C. Dorr . . 7 A WINTER EVENING . . . J. Hazard Hartzell . . 7 FEBRUARY James Berry Bensel . . 8 A WINTER HYMN .... Paul Hamilton Hayne . 9 A WINTER SCENE IN NEW HAMPSHIRE Ernest IV. Shurtleff . . 10 A WINTER DAY David Gray n A DAY IN FEBRUARY . . Alfred Tennyson ... 12 THE WIDOW BIRD .... Percy Bysshe Shelley . . 13 THE FROZEN CASCADE . . Susan Louisa Higginson . 13 THE PATH THROUGH THE SNOW Mrs. Mulock Craik . . 14 vi CONTENTS. PAGE GOLD-EYED AS THE SHORE- FLOWER ... . . Algernon C. Swinburne . 15 FEBRUARY Edmund Spenser . . 16 WINTER SUNSET .... Robert Kelley Weeks . . 16 SNOW ON THE MOORS . . Unknown 17 I WENT TO LOOK FOR ROSES, Menella Bute Smedley . 18 SKATING Paul Hamilton Hayne . 18 WINTER TWILIGHT . . . Anna Boynton Aver ill . 19 FEBRUARY William Morris ... 20 WINTER WINDS George Henry Boker . . 21 SUNNY DAYS IN WINTER . Denis F. Matarthy . . . 22 THE SNOW-SHOWER . . . William Cullen Bryant . 24 SLEEP, BABY MINE . . . W. Wilsey Martin ... 26 THE AIR IS WHITE . . . John Payne 27 *THE FEBRUARY HUSH . . Thomas W. Higginson . 28 WINTER : AN ELEGY . . . J. Logie Robertson ... 29 SNOW-BlRDS George W. W. Houghton . 29 ON THE CHOICE OF WEATH- ER Louise Imogen Guiney . 30 THE WINTER WALK AT NOON William Cowper ... 30 A WINTER SCENE .... Ernest W. Shurtleff . . 31 O WINTER, WILT THOU NEVER GO David Gray 33 FEBRUARY IN ROME . . . Edmund William Gosse . 34 A WINTER ROUNDELAY . . Clinton Scollard. ... 34 IN THE WINTER NO BIRDS SlNG Charles M. Thompson . 35 A FLOWER Unknown 36 * Now for the first time published. CONTENTS. Vil PAGE LEAFLESS HOURS . . . . E. R. Bulwer-Lytton . . 37 SNOW SHADOWS Henry Hartshorne ... 37 ON THE FRENCH EXPEDI- TION TO RUSSIA . . . William Words-worth . . 38 THE MOTH Charles De Kay .... 38 *FEBRUARY Mrs. Jane G. Austin . . 39 THE THRUSH IN FEBRU- ARY George Meredith .... 40 A VALENTINE Frank D. Sherman . . 43 A HYMN TO BISHOP SAINT VALENTINE Leigh Hunt 44 VALENTINE VERSES . . . Francis W. Bourdillon . 46 *!N FEBRUARY Frank D. Sherman . . 47 LINES SUGGESTED BY THE I4TH OF FEBRUARY . . Charles Stuart Calverley . 48 VALENTINE IN FORM OF BALLADE Andrew Lang .... 49 VALENTINE'S DAY, 1873 . . Charles Kingsley ... 50 FORESHADOWINGS .... Mrs. Julia C. Dorr . . 51 WHAT MAY BE Nora Perry 53 THE SNOW LIES WHITE . Jean Ingelow 53 NIGHT-WINDS IN WINTER . Paul Hamilton Hayne . 54 A BITTER WINTER . . . Percy Bysshe Shelley . . .55 FEBRUARY Mrs. Mary B. Dodge . . 56 ZERO IN THE SUN .... Rossiter Johnson ... 56 WINTER TIME Robert Louis Stevenson . 57 SLEDGE BELLS Jean Ingelow 58 PANSIES Sarah Doudney .... 59 A WINTER PIECE .... William Cullen Bryant . 60 * Written for this volume. Vlll CONTENTS. PAGE To A BIRD IN WINTER . . Edward Hovell-Thurlow, 64 A WINTER NIGHT .... Mrs. Elizabeth Kinnty . 65 ON THE WIND IN FEBRUARY, Christina G. Rossetti . . 65 DESOLATE Sydney Thompson Dobell, 66 FEBRUARY RAIN .... Charles Turner Dazey . 67 FEBRUARY Ed-win Arnold .... 68 SEASONS Lewis Morris .... 68 THE BELLS Edgar Allan Poe ... 69 IN A WINTER STORM . . . Louise Imogen Guiney . 69 A BOOK OF NATURE . . . Richard K. Munkittrick . 70 A WINTER AFTERNOON . . Robert Kelley Weeks . . 70 AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY . Henry W. Longfellow . 71 WINTER Mrs. Lucy Hooper ... 72 THE CRICKET William Cowper ... 73 To A SNOWDROP .... William Wordsworth . 74 A LEGEND OF THE SNOW- DROP Maurice Francis Egan . 75 THE SNOWDROP IN THE SNOW Sydney Thompson Dobell, 75 THE SNOWSTORM .... Charles Turner Dazey . 77 LONGING FOR SPRING . . Alfred Tennyson ... 78 THE SNOW-BIRD .... Hezekiah Butterworth . 79 WHERE NOW THE VITAL ENERGY William Cowper ... So A WINTER THOUGHT . . Martin J. Griffin ... 82 THE WINTER WIND . . . James Russell Lowell . 83 A VISION OF SPRING IN WINTER Algernon C. Swinburne . 84 IN FEBRUARY JohnAddingtonSymonds, 87 FEBRUARY Mrs. Helen F. Jackson . 88 CONTENTS. IX PAGE THE FROZEN RIVER . . . Mrs. Augusta D. Webster, 88 WINTER RAIN Christina G. Rossetti . . 89 DIE DOWN, O DISMAL DAY, David Gray 90 EVANESCENCE Louise Imogen Guiney . 91 UNDER THE SNOWDRIFT . Mrs. Harriet Spofford . 91 WHEN SPRINGTIDE COMES . Henry G. Hewlett ... 92 THE SNOWSTORM .... Ernest W. Shurtleff . . 94 THE SNOWDROP Agnes Strickland ... 94 SAFE Mrs. Augusta D. Webster, 95 LAKE CAYUGA IN WINTER . Mrs. Laura C. Searing . 96 ON RECEIVING A PLAQUE OF APPLE-BLOOMS .... Clinton Scollard ... 97 THE FROST INCREASED . . William Morris .... 98 'Tis THE WORLD'S WINTER . Alfred Tennyson ... 99 THE FLOWERS TO COME . Mrs. Augusta D.Webster, 99 ONE SWALLOW Emily H. Hickey . . . 100 THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS, William Cullen Bryant . 101 SNOWDROPS: CONSOLATION, Sarah Doudney .... 102 ROBBER BLUEBACK . . . Charles De Kay . . . . 103 MIDNIGHT Mrs. Frances L. Mace . 104 UNDER THE SNOWS . . . Katharine Lee Bates . . 105 ICE George W. W. Houghton . 105 THE MELTING OF THE SNOW, Robert Buchanan . . . 106 EXPECTATION Edmund William Gosse . 108 ON A WARM DAY NEAR THE CLOSE OF WINTER . . George Dennison Prentice, 109 EXPECTATION Emma Lazarus .... no THE WINTER RAIN . . . Jones Very in AFTER THE WINTER RAIN. Ina Donna Coolbrith . . in WAITING JohnAddingtonSymonds, 112 X CONTENTS. PAGE THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET John Keats 113 THE LAST SNOW OF WIN- TER Sarah Doudney . . . . 113 FEBRUARY THAW .... William Morris . . . 114 FEBRUARY George W. Thornbury . 115 SNOW-BLOOM Lucy Larcom 115 LATE FEBRUARY .... William Morris . . . . 116 VOID SPRING Philip Bourke Marston . 117 LATE WINTER Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 117 O SOFT SPRING AIRS . . Mrs. Harriet Spofford . 118 FAREWELL AND HAIL . . Clinton Scollard . . . 119 L'ENVOI Mrs. Mary E. Blake . . 120 INDEX OF AUTHORS. PAGE ARNOLD, EDWIN. Born in Rochester, England, June 10, 1832. February ......... 68 AURINGER, OBADIAH CORNELIUS. Born in Glens Falls, New York, June 4, 1849. Winter . 4 AUSTIN, MRS. JANE [GOODWIN]. Born in Boston, Massachusetts, February 25, 1831. February 39 AVERILL, ANNA BOYNTON. Bom in Alton, Maine, February 25, 1843. Winter Twilight ....... 19 BALDWIN, A. H. Born in England, 18 . Snow on the Moors ...... 17 BATES, CHARLOTTE FISKE. Born in New York City, November 30, 1838. Spring in Winter ....... xxvi Xll INDEX OF AUTHORS. PACK BATES, KATHARINE LEE. Born in Falmouth, Massachusetts, August 12, 1859. Under the Snows ....... 105 BENSEL, JAMES BERRY. Born in New York City, August 2, 1856. February . ........ 8 BLAKE, MRS. MARY ELIZABETH [MCGRATH]. Born in Dungarven, County Waterford, Ireland, September i, 1840. L'Envoi ......... 120 BOKER, GEORGE HENRY. Born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, 1824. Winter Winds BOURDILLON, FRANCIS WILLIAM. Born in Woolbedding, Sussex, England, 1852. Valentine Verses 46 BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. Born in Cummington, Massachusetts, November 3, 1794. Died in New York City, June 12, 1878. A Winter Piece 60 The Return of the Birds 101 The Snow Shower 24 BUCHANAN, ROBERT WILLIAMS. Born in Glasgow, Scotland, August 18, 1841. The Melting of the Snow 106 INDEX OF AUTHORS. Xlll PAGE BULWER-LYTTON, EDWARD ROBERT LYTTON. Born in Hertfordshire, England, November 8, 1831. Leafless Hours 37 BUTTERWORTH, HEZEKIAH. Born in Warren, Rhode Island, December 22, 1839. The Snow-Bird 79 CALVERLEY, CHARLES STUART. Born near Leeds, England, 1831. Died in England, February, 1884. Lines for the Fourteenth of February ... 48 CANTON, WILLIAM. Born in the Island of Chusan, near China, October 27, 1845. The Winter Sleep I COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR. Born in Ottery St. Mary, Devonshire, England, October 21, 1772. Died in Highgate, London, England, July 25, 1834. On Observing a Blossom on the First of February, 2 Late Winter 117 COOLBRITH, INA DONNA. Born in Springfield, Illinois, 18 . After the Winter Rain ill COWPER, WILLIAM. Born in Great Berkhamstead, Hertfordshire, England, November 26, 1831. Died in East Dereham, Norfolk, England, April 25, 1800. The Cricket 73 The Winter Walk at Noon 30 Where now the Vital Energy 80 XIV INDEX OF AUTHORS. PAGB CRAIK, MRS. DINAH MARIA [MULOCK], Born in Stoke-upon-Trent, England, 1826. The Path through the Snow 14 DAZEY, CHARLES TURNER. Born in Lima, Illinois, August 13, 1855. February Rain 67 The Snowstorm 77 DE KAY, CHARLES. Bom in Washington, District of Columbia, July 29, 1849. Robber Blueback 103 The Moth 38 DOBELL, SYDNEY THOMPSON. Bom in Peckham, Rye, England, April 5, 1824. Died near Nailsworth, Gloucestershire, England, August 22, 1874. Desolate 66 The Snowdrop in the Snow 75 DODGE, MRS. MARY [BARKER]. Born in Pennsylvania, 18 . February 56 DOMETT, ALFRED. Born in Camberwell Grove, Surrey, England, May 20, 1811. A Glee for Winter DORR, MRS. JULIA CAROLINE [RIPLEY]. Bom in Charleston, South Carolina, February 13, 1825. Foreshadowings 51 Winter 7 INDEX OF AUTHORS, XV PACK DOUDNEY, SARAH. Born in England, 18 . Pansies 59 Snowdrops Consolation ..... 102 The Last' Snow of Winter "3 EGAN, MAURICE FRANCIS. Born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, May 24, 1852. A Legend of the Snowdrop 75 FAWCETT, EDGAR. Born in New York City, May 26, 1847. February 4 GOSSE, EDMUND WILLIAM. Born in London, England, September 21, 1849. Expectation IQ 8 February in Rome 34 GRAY, DAVID. Born in Duntiblae, near Glasgow, Scotland, January 29, 1838. Died in Merkland, near Glasgow, Scotland, December 3, 1861. A Winter Day " Die down, O Dismal Day 9 O Winter, wilt thou never go 33 GRIFFIN, MARTIN J. A Winter Thought 82 XVi WDEX OF AUTHORS. PACK GUINEY, LOUISE IMOGEN. Born in Boston, Massachusetts, January 7, 1861. Evanescence gi In a Winter Storm 69 On the Choice of Weather . . *. . -30 HARTSHORNE, HENRY. Born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, March 15, 1823, Snow Shadows 37 HARTZELL, J. HAZARD. Born in Buffalo Township, Washington Co., Pennsylvania, 18 . A Winter Evening 7 HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON. Born in Charleston, South Carolina, January i, 1831. A Winter Hymn 9 Night Winds in Winter 54 Skating 18 HEWLETT, HENRY G. Born in England, 18 . February 6 When Springtide Comes 92 HICKEY, EMILY HENRIETTA. Born near Enniscorthy, Ireland, April 12, 1845. One Swallow ... , 100 INDEX OF AUTHORS. XV11 PAGE HIGGINSON, SUSAN LOUISA. Born in Boston, Massachusetts, November 19, 1816. Died in Portland, Maine, August 27, 1875. The Frozen Cascade 13 HIGGINSON, THOMAS WENTWORTH. Born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, December 22, 1823. The February Hush 28 HOOPER, MRS. LUCY HAMILTON QONES]. Born in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, January 20, 1835. Winter 72 HOUGHTON, GEORGE WASHINGTON WRIGHT. Born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, August 12, 1850. Ice 105 Snow-Birds 29 HOVELL-THURLOW, EDWARD. Born in England, 1781. Died in England, June 4, 1829. To a Bird in Winter 64 HUNT, JAMES HENRY LEIGH. Born in Southgate, England, October 19, 1784. Died in Putney, England, August 28, 1859. A Hymn to Bishop Saint Valentine ... 44 INGELOW, JEAN. Born in Boston, England, 1830. Sledge Bells The Snow Lies White XV111 INDEX OF AUTHORS. PACK JACKSON, MRS. HELEN MARIA [FISKE] [HUNT]. Born in Amherst, Massachusetts, October 18, 1831. Died in San Francisco, California, August 12, 1885. February 88 JOHNSON, ROSSITER. Born in Rochester, New York, January 27, 1840. Zero in the Sun 56 KEATS, JOHN. Born in Moorfields, England, October 29, 1796. Died in Florence, Italy, February 24, 1821. The Grasshopper and the Cricket . . . -113 KINNEY, MRS. ELIZABETH CLEMENTINE [DODGE] [STEDMAN]. Born in New York City, December, 1810. A Winter Night 65 KINGSLEY, CHARLES. Born in Holne, Devonshire, England, June 12, 1819. Died in Eversley, England, January 23, 1875. Valentine's Day, 1873 -5 LANG, ANDREW. Born in England, 1844. Valentine in Form of Ballade .... 49 LARCOM, LUCY. Born in Beverly Farms, Massachusetts, 1826. Snow-Bloom 115 LAZARUS, EMMA. Born in New York City, July 22, 1849. Expectation no INDEX OF AUTHORS. XIX PAGE LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH. Born in Portland, Maine, February 27, 1807. Died in Cambridge, Massachusetts, March 24, 1882. Afternoon in February . . . . . 71 February 3 LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. Bom in Cambridge, Massachusetts, February 22, 1819. The Winter Wind 83 MACARTHY, DENIS FLORENCE. Born in Dublin, Ireland, circa 1817. Died in Blackrock, near Dublin, Ireland, April 7, 1882. Sunny Days in Winter 22 MACE, MRS. FRANCES [LAUGHTON]. Born in Orono, Maine, January 15, 1836. Midnight 104 MARSTON, PHILIP BOURKE. Born in London, 1850. Void Spring 117 MARTIN, WILLIAM WILSEY. Born in Reading, Berkshire, England, October n, 1833. Sleep, Baby Mine 26 MATHEWS, JAMES NEWTON. Born near Greencastle, Indiana, May 27, 1852 In Winter MEREDITH, GEORGE. Born in Hampshire, England, 1828. The Thrush in February 40 XXll INDEX OF AUTHORS. PAGH SHURTLEFF, ERNEST WARBURTON. Born in Boston, Massachusetts, April 4, 1862. A Winter Scene 30 A Winter Scene in New Hampshire 10 The Snowstorm 94 SMEDLEY, MENELLA BUTE. Born in England, circa 1825. Died in England, circa 1875. I Went to Look for Roses 18 SPENSER, EDMUND. Born in London, England, circa 1553. Died in London, England, January 15, 1599. February 16 SPOFFORD, MRS. HARRIET ELIZABETH [PRESCOTT]. Born in Calais, Maine, April 3, 1835. Candlemas ........ 3 Under the Snowdrift 91 STEVENSON, ROBERT Louis. Born in Edinburgh, Scotland, 1850. Winter Time 57 STRICKLAND, AGNES. Born in Reydon Hall, Suffolk, England, July 19, 1796. Died in Reydon Hall, Suffolk, England, July 8, 1874. The Snowdrop 94 SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES. Born in London, England, April 5, 1837. A Vision of Spring in Winter .... 84 Gold- Eyed as the Shore-Flower . . . -15 INDEX OF AUTHORS- XX111 PACK SYMONDS, JOHN ADDINGTON. Born in Bristol, England, October 5, 1840. In February 87 Waiting 112 TENNYSON, ALFRED. Born in Somerby, Lincolnshire, England, August 5, 1809. A Day in February 12 Longing for Spring . 78 'Tis the World's Winter 99 THOMPSON, CHARLES MINER. Born in Montpelier, Vermont, March 24, 1864. In the Winter no Birds Sing 35 THORNBURY, GEORGE WALTER. Born in London, England, 1828. Died in London, England, June n, 1876. February 115 VERY, JONES. Born in Salem, Massachusetts, August 28, 1813. Died in Salem, Massachusetts, May 8, 1880. The Winter Rain Ill WEBSTER, MRS. AUGUSTA [DAVIES]. Born in Poole, Dorsetshire, England, 1840. Safe 95 The Flowers to Come . . . . . 99 The Frozen River 88 WEEKS, ROBERT KELLEY. Born in New York City, September 21, 1840. Died in New York City, April 13, 1876. XXIV INDEX OF AUTHORS. PAGE WEEKS, ROBERT KELLEY (Continued). A Winter Afternoon 70 Winter Sunset 16 WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM. Bom in Cockermouth, Cumberland, England, April 7, 1770. Died in Rydal Mount, Westmoreland, England, April 23, 1850. On the French Expedition to Russia ... 38 To a Snowdrop . 74 UNKNOWN. A Flower 36 FEBRUARY. SPRING IN WINTER. For me there is no rarer thing Than, while the winter's lingering. To taste the blessedness of spring. Were this the spring, I now should sigh That aught were spent j but rich am If Untouched springs golden sum doth lie. CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES. FEBRUARY. THE WINTER SLEEP. WHEN snow began she tried to make No noise, was frugal in her mirth ; She feared her childish romps might break The wintry slumber of the Earth. When roofs shook down the thawing snow, And snowdrops peeped, what joyous cries ! Had not dear Earth begun to throw The clothes off, and to open eyes ? But when once more the snow came down, And hoar-frost whitened every pane, Her brows were puckered in a frown, The change perplexed her little brain. She thought and thought how this might be ; At last, " Oh my, papa ! " she cried ; " We thought she was awake, but she Has only turned upon her side ! " WILLIAM CANTON. 2 A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY. FEBRUARY. I AM lustration ; and the sea is mine ! I wash the sands and headlands with my tide ; My brow is crowned with branches of the pine ; Before my chariot-wheels the fishes glide. By me all things unclean are purified, By me the souls of men washed white again ; E'en the unlovely tombs of those who died Without a dirge, I cleanse from every stain. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. The Poet's Calendar. ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY. SWEET Flower ! that peeping from thy russet stem Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering month Hath borrowed Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor flower ! These are but flatteries of the faithless year. Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave, E'en now the keen North East is on its way. Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope, Bright flower of Hope killed in the opening bud ? Farewell, sweet blossom ! better fate be thine CANDLEMAS. 3 And mock my boding ! Dim similitudes Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour From anxious self, life's cruel taskmaster ! , And the warm wooings of this sunny day Tremble along my frame, and harmonize The attempered organ, that even saddest thoughts Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes Played deftly on a soft-toned instrument. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. CANDLEMAS. LIKE some immortal heathen thing, All fresh with bloom, with odor sweet, With brook and bird and breeze in tune, The beautiful bright earth of June Moves to the fullness of her noon, While serving sunbeams round her fling The purple violets as they fleet. But when the winter's feathery rime Plumes every leaf and spray, And the deep skies about her close, With morning's saffron, evening's rose, Sparkling along her stainless snows, So some great spirit, done with time, Takes into space its white-winged way. MRS HARRIET ELIZABETH [PRESCOTT] SPOFFORD. WINTER. FEBRUAR Y. WINTER. O WINTER ! thou art not that haggard Lear, With stormy beard and countenance of woe, Raving amain, or dumbly crouching low, In hoary desolation mocked with fear. To me thou art the white queen of the year, A stately virgin in her robes of snow, With royal lilies crowned, and all aglow With holy charms and gems celestial clear. Nor dost thou come in barren majesty, Thou hast thy dower of sunbeams thrice refined ; Nor songless, but with cheerful minstrelsy Rung from the singing harp-strings of the wind ; And ah, with such sweet dreams, such visions bright, Of flowers, and birds, and love's divine delight ! OBADIAH CORNELIUS AURINGER. In the Century Magazine. FEBRUARY. . . FEBRUARY, a form Pale-vestured, wildly fair, One of the North Wind's daughters, With icicles in her hair. EDGAR FAWCETT. The Afasque of Months. IN WINTER. A GLEE FOR WINTER. IN WINTER. AND then the snows came, and the squirrel slept Within the upper chambers of the oak; And through the night the watchful rabbit leapt, And the wild fox within his den awoke, The darkness buttoned round him like a cloak, And pausing, listened for the crowing cock ; Afar the wolf's howl through the forest broke, And the brusque owl sat hooting on the rock, And preening the feathers of his antique frock. JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS. A GLEE FOR WINTER. HENCE, rude Winter ! crabbed old fellow, Never merry, never mellow ! Well-a-day ! in rain and snow What will keep one's heart aglow ? Groups of kinsmen, old and young, Oldest they old friends among ! Groups of friends, so old and true, That they seem our kinsmen too ! These all merry all together, Charm away chill Winter weather ! What will kill this dull old fellow ? Ale that's bright, and wine that's mellow ! FEBRUARY. Dear old songs forever new ; Sometimes love, and laughter too ; Pleasant wit, and harmless fun, And a dance when day is done ! Music-friends so true and tried, Whispered love by warm fireside, Mirth at all times all together, Make sweet May of Winter weather ! ALFRED DOMETT. FEBRUARY. As one who ere his manly frame be knit, Meets a death-angel on its winged way, Who grips him in his hand as if to slay, And till his wasted limbs are all unfit To climb the steep world, will not set him quit, The spring-child fares, when winter, whose grim day Is well-nigh done, descries him for its prey. The new blade withers, by its anger smit ; The sap recoils. But youth itself retrieves. The sallow cheek grows clear ; the blue eye cleaves Its filmy prison ; the pulse, erewhile so frail, Leaps high. So now, in snowdrops pure and pale Breaks the sere grass ; the violet rends her veil ; In green or crimson buds the tree's heart heaves. HENRY G. HEWLETT. An English Year. WINTER. A WINTER EVENING. J WINTER. O MY roses, lying underneath the snow ! Do you still remember summer's warmth and glow ? Do you thrill, remembering how your blushes burned When the Day-god on you ardent glances turned ? Great tree, wildly stretching bare arms up to heaven, Do you think how softly, on some warm June even, All your young leaves whispered, all your birds sang low, As with rhythmic motion boughs swayed to and fro ? River, lying white ly in a frozen sleep, Know you how your pulses used to throb and leap ? How you danced and sparkled on your happy way, In the summer mornings when the world was gay? Dear Earth, dumbly waiting God's appointed time- Are you faint with longing for the voice sublime ? Wrapped in stony silence, does your great heart beat, Listening in the darkness for the coming of His feet? MRS. JULIA CAROLINE [RIPLEY] DORR. A WINTER EVENING. How pale and weak becomes the lamp of day, With oil and wick far spent and burning low, With glory flickering in the yellow ray, And dying on the peaceful bed of snow ! J. HAZARD HARTZELL. 8 FEBRUARY. FEBRUARY. AROUND, above the world of snow The light-heeled breezes breathe and blow ; Now here, now there, they whirl the flakes, And whistle through the sun-dried brakes, Then, growing faint, in silence fall Against the keyhole in the hall. Then dusky twilight spreads around, The last soft snowflake seeks the ground, And through unshaded window-panes The lamp-rays strike across the plains, While now and then a shadow tall Is thrown upon the white washed wall. The hoar-frost crackles on the trees, The rattling brook begins to freeze, The well-sweep glistens in the light As if with dust of diamonds bright ; And speeding o'er the crusted snow A few swift-footed rabbits go. Then the night-silence, long and deep, When weary eyes close fast in sleep ; The hush of Nature's breath, until The cock crows loud upon the hill ; And shortly through the eastern haze The red sun sets the sky ablaze. JAMES BERRY BENSEL A WINTER HYMN. A WINTER HYMN. O WEARY winds ! O winds that wail ! O'er desert fields and ice-locked rills ! O heavens that brood so cold and pale Above the frozen norland hills ! Nature is like some sorrowing soul, Robed in a garb of dreariest woe ; She cannot see her vernal goal Through ghostly veils of mist and snow ; Her pulse beats low ; through all her veins Scarce can the sluggish life-blood start ; What feeble, faltering heat sustains The half-numbed forces of her heart ! Above, despondent eyes she lifts, To view the sun-ray's dubious birth ; Beneath she marks the storm-piled drifts About a waste bewildering earth ! Ah, stricken Mother ! hast thou lost All memory of the germs that rest Untouched by tempest, rain, or frost, Shrined in thine own immortal breast ? Bend, bend thine ear ; yea, bend and hear, Despite the winds' and woodlands' strife, Deep in earth's bosom, faint and clear, The far-off murmurous hints of life : IO A WINTER SCENE IN NEW HAMPSHIRE. The sound of waves in whispering flow ; Of seeds that stir in dreams of light, Whose sweetness mocks the shrouded snow, Whose radiance smiles at death and night ; So, Christian spirit ! wrapt in grief, Beneath thy misery's frozen sod, Love works, to burst in flower and leaf, On some fair spring-dawn fresh from God ! PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE. A WINTER SCENE IN NEW HAMPSHIRE. BLUE starry skies ; hills dreaming in their snows, Their silent whiteness high against the west ; The crescent moon along their silver crest A golden flood of blending beauty throws. Beneath, the leafless forests grim repose, Where cold and dreary shadows brooding rest, Like melancholy spirits that infest The lonely scenes of their mysterious woes. Nearer, a rough, untraveled road, where stands A log-built cabin, from whose heavy panes A flickering light streams o'er the neighboring lands. Close by, a tree where not a leaf remains, Stretching aloft his naked, frosty hands ; And over all a solemn silence reigns. ERNEST WARBURTON SHURTLEFF. A WINTER DAY. II A WINTER DAY. A WINTER day ! the feather-silent snow Thickens the air with strange delight, and lays A fairy carpet on the barren lea. No sun, yet all around that inward light Which is in purity, a soft moonshine, The silvery dimness of a happy dream. How beautiful, afar on moorland ways, Bosomed by mountains, darkened by huge glens (Where the lone altar, raised by Druid hands, Stands like a mournful phantom), hidden clouds Let fall soft beauty, till each green fir branch Is plumed and tasselled, till each heather stalk Is delicately fringed ! The sycamores, Through all their mystical entanglement Of boughs, are draped with silver. All the green Of sweet leaves playing with the subtile air In dainty murmuring, the obstinate drone Of limber bees that in the monkshood bells House diligent, the imperishable glow Of summer sunshine never more confessed The harmony of nature, the divine, Diffusive spirit of the beautiful. Out in the snowy dimness, half revealed, Like ghosts in glimpsing moonshine, wildly run The children in bewildering delight. There is a living glory in the air, A glory in the hushed air, in the soul A palpitating wonder hushed in awe. 12 A DAY IN FEBRUARY. Softly with delicate softness as the light Quickens in the undawned east, and silently With definite silence as the stealing dawn Dapples the floating clouds, slow fall, slow fall, With indecisive motion eddying down, The white-winged flakes, calm as the sleep of sound, Dim as a dream. DAVID GRAY. The Luggie. A DAY IN FEBRUARY. A BITTER day that early sank Behind a purple-frosty bank Of vapor, leaving night forlorn. The time admits not flowers or leaves To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies The blast of North and East, and ice Makes daggers at the sharpened eaves, And bristles all the brakes and thorns To yon hard crescent, as she hangs Above the wood which grides and clangs Its leafless ribs and iron horns Together, in the drifts that. pass To darken on the rolling brine That breaks the coast. ALFRED TENNYSON. In Memoriam. THE FROZEN CASCADE. 13 THE WIDOW BIRD. A WIDOW bird sate mourning for her love Upon a wintry bough ; The frozen wind crept on above, The freezing stream below. There was no leaf upon the forest bare, No flower upon the ground, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's sound. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. THE FROZEN CASCADE. (THE BRIDE OF THE ROCK.) IN beauty perfected, with lavish grace, She casts herself about his rugged form, With all her vesture on, of snowy white, Nor left one pendant out, one dropping pearl. Could she be fairer ? Through her silver veins The warm sun searches, as for some weak spot, But with a pride refined, she smileth back ; " I gave myself in beauty to this Rock ; Ancient he is, and reverend and strong ; And I will fringe him with my snowy arms, And lay my white cheek on his dark gray brow, Nor ever melt for all thy beaming eyes ! " SUSAN LOUISA HIGGINSON. 14 THE PATH THROUGH THE SNOW. THE PATH THROUGH THE SNOW. BARE and sunshiny, bright and bleak, Rounded cold as a dead maid's cheek, Folded white as a sinner's shroud, Or wandering angel's robes of cloud. Well I know, well I know Over the fields the path through the snow. Narrow and rough it lies between Wastes where the wind sweeps, biting keen : Every step of the slippery road Marks where some weary foot has trod. Who'll go, who'll go After the rest on the path through the snow ? They who would tread it must walk alone, Silent and steadfast, one by one : Dearest to dearest can only say, " My heart ! I'll follow thee all the way, As we go, as we go, Each after each on this path through the snow." It may be under that western haze Lurks the omen of brighter days ; That each sentinel tree is quivering Deep at its core with the sap of spring, And while we go, while we go, Green grass-blades pierce through the glittering snow, GOLD-EYED AS THE SHORE-FLOWER. 15 It may be the unknown path will tend Never to any earthly end, Die with the dying day obscure, And never lead to a human door : That none know who did go Patiently once on this path through the snow. No matter, no matter ! the path shines plain ; These pure snow-crystals will deaden pain ; Above, like stars in the deep blue dark, Eyes that love us look down and mark. Let us go, let us go, Whither heaven leads in the path through the snow. MRS. DINAH MARIA [MULOCK] CRAIK. GOLD-EYED AS THE SHORE-FLOWER. . . . GOLD-EYED as the shore-flower shelterless Whereon the sharp-breathed sea blows bitterness, A storm-star that the seafarers of love Strain their wind-wearied eyes for glimpses of, Shoots keen through February's grey frost and damp The lamp-like star of Hero for a lamp ; The star that Marlowe sang into our skies With mouth of gold, and morning in his eyes. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. Tristram and heult. 1 6 FEBRUARY. WINTER SUNSET. FEBRUARY. . . . CAME cold February, sitting In an old wagon, for he could not ride, Drawn of two fishes, for the season fitting, Which through the flood before did softly slide And swim away : yet had he by his side His plough and harness fit to till the ground, And tools to prune the trees, before the pride Of hasting Prime did make them bourgeon round. EDMUND SPENSER. The Faerie Queene. WINTER SUNSET. I SAW a cloud at set of sun Exceeding white and fair, High over every other one, And poised in purer air ; Like one that follows, forward bent, With arms outspread before, Into the splendid west he went Just as the day was o'er ; I saw him turn to rosy red, I saw him turn to fire, I saw him burn away, and said This one had his desire f ROBERT KELLEY WEEKS. SNOW ON THE MOORS. I/ SNOW ON THE MOORS. (FEBRUARY.) O'ER the wide waste of barren, bloomless moors, Whereon not yet the purple heather bells Yield honey-spoil unto the roving bee, Falls thick and wide the winter snow. Long, long ago, the pale blue harebells died ; The golden broom her petals one by one Dropped 'mid the sere brown fern ; and all the wealth Of sweet wild flowers that make bright and fair The fells in autumn, withered lie and dead Beneath the wintry blast. The shepherd seeks, Hardy and weather-seasoned though he be, The shelter of his cot ; his bonnet blue Scarce keeps from off his scanty silver hairs The pelting snowstorm ; crouch the shivering ewes With their new-yeaned and pretty bleating lambs, 'Neath the furze-covered shed. Keen, keen, and cold, The north wind whistles o'er the bleak hillside, As, chill and gray, the gloaming closes in ; And ceaseless flutter from the leaden sky The feathering flakes, till not a single bush, Or tuft or hillock, through its covering shows, But still and white and silent all around, The landscape lies beneath a shroud of snow. A. H. BALDWIN. 1 8 SKA TING. I WENT TO LOOK FOR ROSES. I WENT to look for roses When snow was on the ground, Alas, a withered thorn-bush Was all the flowers I found ! I thought of summer blossoms Alight with dews of mom, And down I sate me weeping Beside the barren thorn. Out spake a grey-haired neighbor, " O madness ! not to know The time of living roses Is not the time of snow." Fie on such foolish comfort ! It never dried one tear ; I am weeping for my roses Because they are not here. MENELLA BUTE SMEDLEY. SKATING. I CHASED the maid with rapid feet, Where ice and sunbeam quiver ; But still beyond me, shyly fleet, She flashed far down the river. WINTER TWILIGHT. ig Sometimes, blown backward in the chase, With balmy, soft caresses, I felt across my glowing face The waft of perfumed tresses. Sometimes a glance she shot behind, O'er graceful shoulders turning A cheek whose tints the eager wind Had set like sunrise burning. Then, in a sudden onward glide, She rushed with even motion, As a long wave the restless tide Drives shoreward fast from ocean ; And swift as some winged creature sped Far down the shining river, Until the shining form that fled I dreamed might fly forever. PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE. WINTER TWILIGHT. No summer sunset afterglow Can match the soft rose of the snow Upon the pure-browed hill : Blue shadows fill the dells below, Sweet airs from fields of silence flow, And earth and sky are still. 20 FEBRUARY. Between the outer deeps of night And this low vale, the lingering light Builds of the evening mist High walls of glory fair and far ; And in the glory shines a star Through trembling amethyst. O vale of snow ! the world of thought, The spirit-realm wherein are wrought The dreams that teach us what we are, Is brightened by a nameless light That warms the peaceful heart to-night And throbs beyond the evening star. O human kind, why will ye seek The language of the skies to speak ? Day unto day doth utter speech That through the silence of the stars, Through life's mysterious prison-bars, Down to the listening soul can reach. ANNA BOYNTON AVERILL. FEBRUARY. NOON, and the north-west sweeps the empty road, The rain-washed fields from hedge to hedge are bare ; Beneath the leafless elms some hind's abode Looks small and void, and no smoke meets the air From its poor hearth : one lonely rook doth dare WINTER WINDS. 21 The gale, and beats above the unseen corn, Then turns, and whirling down the wind is borne. Shall it not hap that on some dawn of May Thou shalt awake, and, thinking of days dead, See nothing clear but this same dreary day, Of all the days that have passed o'er thine head? Shalt thou not wonder, looking from thy bed, Through green leaves on the windless east a-fire, That this day too thine heart doth still desire ? Shalt thou not wonder that it liveth yet, The useless hope, the useless craving pain, That made thy face, that lonely noontide, wet With more than beating of the chilly rain ? Shalt thou not hope for joy new born again, Since no grief ever born can ever die Through changeless change of seasons passing by ? WILLIAM MORRIS. The Earthly Paradise. WINTER WINDS. O WINTER winds, your mournful roar Is burden of the song I sing ; An everlasting dirge ye pour, A restless pain that beats the door Of heaven with its wounded wing. Grief has no faith ; the common woe That sees a future hope unfold, 22 SUNNY DAYS IN WINTER. Draws comfort thence ; but as ye blow, O winter winds, a grief I know That cannot, would not be consoled. Ye wail o'er earth left desolate, O'er beauty stricken with decay ; Ye howl behind the path of fate, Deaf to the voice that bids you wait, Ye cry for what has passed away. And I who stand with drooping eyes, What heart have I to rise and greet The beckoning hopes, that dimly rise, While all I loved and trusted lies In ashes at my faltering feet ? O winter winds, add moan to moan ! For though ye give me no relief, Ye sound a fitting undertone, A dreary note whose heavy drone Keeps measure with my shriller grief. GEORGE HENRY BOKER. SUNNY DA YS IN WINTER. SUMMER is a glorious season, Warm and bright and pleasant ; But the past is not a reason To despise the present ; SUNNY DAYS IN WINTER. 23 So, while health can climb the mountain, And the log lights up the hall, There are sunny days in winter, after all ! Spring no doubt hath faded from us, Maiden-like in charms ; Summer, too, with all her promise, Perished in our arms : But the memory of the vanished Whom our hearts recall, Maketh sunny days in winter, after all ! Sunny hours in every season Wait the innocent ; Those who taste with love and reason What their God hath sent ; Those who neither soar too highly, Nor too lowly fall, Feel the sunny days of winter, after all ! Then, although our darling treasures Vanish from the heart ; Then, although our once-loved pleasures One by one depart ; Though the tomb looms in the distance, And the mourning pall, There is sunshine, and no winter, after all ! DENIS FLORENCE MACARTHY. 24 THE SNOW-SHOWER. THE SNOW-SHOWER. STAND here by my side and turn, I pray, On the lake below thy gentle eyes ; The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, And dark and silent the water lies ; And out of that frozen mist the snow In wavering flakes begins to flow ; Flake after flake They sink in the dark and silent lake. See how in a living swarm they come From the chambers beyond that misty veil ; Some hover awhile in air, and some Rush prone from the sky like summer hail. All, dropping swiftly or settling slow, Meet, and are still in the depths below ; Flake after flake Dissolved in the dark and silent lake. Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, Come floating downward in airy play, Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd That whiten by night the milky way ; There broader and burlier masses fall ; The sullen water buries them all Flake after flake All drowned in the dark and silent lake. And some, as on tender wings they glide From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, THE SNOW-SHOWER. 2$ Are joined in their fall, and, side by side, Come clinging along their unsteady way ; As friend with friend, or husband with wife, Makes hand in hand the passage of life ; Each mated flake Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake. Lo ! while we are gazing, in swifter haste Stream down the snows, till the air is white, As, myriads by myriads madly chased, They fling themselves from their shadowy height. The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, What speed they make, with their grave so nigh ; Flake after flake, To lie in the dark and silent lake ! I see in thy gentle eyes a tear ; They turn to me in sorrowful thought ; Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, Who were for a time, and now are not ; Like these fair children of cloud and frost, That glisten 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, 26 SLEEP, BABY MINE. But the hurrying host that flew between The cloud and the water, no more is seen ; Flake after flake, At rest in the dark and silent lake. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. SLEEP, BABY MINE. (RONDEAU.) SLEEP, baby mine. The failing light is low, The witch-elms toss their branches to and fro ; And howling winds sing baby's lullaby. Move, shadows, move, and grey frost-clouds go by, My baby sleeps, whatever winds may blow. Sleep, baby mine ; while he, who loves us so, Is daring all the bitter, drifting snow Across the moorlands where the great winds cry. Sleep, baby mine ! Within, the crackling wood fire's ruddy jglow Warms each wee hand, and curled roseleaf toe. Without, the blinding, biting storm mounts high, And barbed snowflakes scatter down the sky. God send thy father ere the darkness grow ! Sleep, baby mine ! WILLIAM WILSEY MARTIN. THE AIR IS WHITE. 2/ THE AIR IS WHITE. (VILLANELLE.) THE air is white with snowflakes clinging ; Between the gusts that come and go, Methinks I hear the woodlark singing ; Methinks I see the primrose springing On many a bank and hedge, although The air is white with snowflakes clinging. Surely, the hands of Spring are flinging Woodscents to all the winds that blow ; Methinks I hear the woodlark singing ; Methinks I see the swallow winging Across the woodlands sad with snow ; The air is white with snowflakes clinging. Was that the cuckoo's woodchime swinging ? Was that the linnet fluting low ? Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. Or can it be the breeze is bringing The breath of violets ? Ah no ! The air is white with snowflakes clinging. It is my lady's voice that's stringing Its beads of gold to song, and so Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. 28 THE FEBRUARY HUSff. The violets I see upspringing Are in my lady's eyes, I trow: The air is white with snowflakes clinging. Dear, while thy tender tones are ringing, Even amidst the winter's woe The air is white with snowflakes clinging, Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. JOHN PAYNE. THE FEBRUARY HUSH. SNOW o'er the darkening moorlands ; Flakes fill the quiet air ; Drifts in the forest hollows And a soft mask everywhere. The nearest twig on the pine-tree Looks blue through the whitening sky, And the clinging beech-leaves rustle Though never a wind goes by. But there's red on the wildrose berries And red in the lovely glow On the cheeks of the child beside me That once were pale, like snow. THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. SNOW-BIRDS, 29 WINTER: AN ELEGY. I LOOK from my lonely window Over the snowy plain ; A hearse and a handful of mourners Are creeping through the rain ! The flowers are dead and departed, The memory of summer is gone, Song from the lark, and the lark from heaven, And the day drags on. My soul looks out from its grating, And sees without a sigh The funeral train of youthful hopes Mournfully pass by \ Health, and the joy of existence, And the faiths that were wont to be, And love, and dead and departing, It's winter with me. J. LOGIE ROBERTSON. SNOW-BIRDS. WITHOUT the snow, no snow-birds, And without their throats to sing, How could \ve waste the winter, Or have a hope of spring ? GEORGE WASHINGTON WRIGHT HOUGHTON. 30 THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. ON THE CHOICE OF WEATHER. SHALL I desire The blossomed languorous months my realm to be, And south winds blowing from the sea ? Shall I desire The dewy meadow In warmth and shadow, And oaks that sunbeams crest with tangled fire ? Ah, no ! ah, no ! But close about my castle, age on age, The starry winter for my heritage : Ah, no ! ah, no ! But lone bright mountains, And prisoned fountains, The enchanted silence and the roaming snow. LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. THE WINTER WALK AT NOON. THE night was winter in its roughest mood ; 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 splendor of the scene below. A WINTER SCENE. 31 Again the harmony comes o'er the vale, And through the trees I view the 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 pendant drops of ice That tinkle in the withered leaves below. Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft, Charms more than silence. WILLIAM COWPER. The Task. A WINTER SCENE. THE earth is wrapped in one white dream of snow, The crescent, like a broken shield of gold, Lies on those purple depths where star-flowers grow, And shines with lambent beams across the wold. 32 A WINTER SCENE. O'er far horizon-lines the mountains lift Their crags against the cold, unfathomed sky, Encased with snow in many a marble drift, Like monuments of centuries passed by. Through ghostly forest aisles, where not a leaf Flecks with its emerald green the frosty boughs, The haunting winds with swelling tales of grief, The frozen trees from heavy dreams arouse. And sudden, by the moonlight's pallid beams, A band of silent wolves speed through the snow ; As, over sorrow's pillow, troubled dreams From slumber's unknown borders come and go. Far from a distant wilderness of woods The fearless owl laughs at the passing hour ; Then silence broods upon the solitudes, And wraps the midnight in her solemn power. A shadow falls on all the hills around, And hidden is the moor's far-spreading light, As o'er the skies, with all their stars profound, The clouds float by like dreamy swans of night. The shadowy hour melts into purple day ; And, through Aurora's fields of azure air, The crimson stream of morning pours its way, And tints the snow-clad hills with colors rare. O WINTER, WILT THOU NEVER GO. 33 And soon, beneath a golden atmosphere, The twinkling crystals of the starry snow, Like rainbow-flashing diamonds pure and clear, For miles outspread, set all the fields aglow. And sharp and strong the north wind fills the skies, And sifts and smooths the downy seas of white, Till Nature wipes the sorrow from her eyes And smiles to see her world so fair and bright. ERNEST WARBURTON SHURTLEFF. O WINTER, WILT THOU NEVER GO. O WINTER ! wilt thou never, never go ? O Summer ! but I weary for thy coming ; Longing once more to hear the Luggie flow, And frugal bees laboriously humming. Now, the east wind diseases the infirm, And I must crouch in corners from rough weather. Sometimes a winter sunset is a charm, When the fired clouds, compacted, blaze together, And the large sun dips, red, behind the hills. I, from my window can behold this pleasure ; And the eternal moon, what time she fills Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure, With queenly motion of a bridal mood, Through the white spaces of infinitude. DAVID GRAY. In the Shadows. 34 . A WINTER ROUNDELAY. FEBRUARY IN ROME. WHEN Roman fields are red with cyclamen, And in the palace gardens you may find, Under great leaves and sheltering briony-bind, Clusters of cream-white violets, O then The ruined city of immortal men Must smile, a little to her fate resigned ; And through her corridors the slow warm wind Gush harmonies beyond a mortal ken. Such soft favonian airs upon a flute, Such shadowy censers burning live perfume, Shall lead the mystic city to her tomb ; Nor flowerless springs, nor autumns without fruit, Nor summer-mornings when the winds are mute, Trouble her soul till Rome be no more Rome. EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE. A WINTER ROUNDELAY. THE mailed sleet is driving Relentless through the air, The trees, as if for shriving, Bend low like monks at prayer. Snow hides the cotes that harbor The wary wrens in spring, And round the viny arbor The frost-elves dance and sing. IN THE WINTER NO BIRDS SING. 35 But here before the fender, Upon my sweet guitar, I waken memories tender Of one who's now afar : How I, her minstrel wooer, Beheld her casement part, The night I sang unto her The hopes that thronged my heart. Though no bright eyes embolden My lips to loving lays, Yet mine are visions golden, And dreams of happier days ; For when the winds cease wailing, And boughs bud tenderly, My sweetheart will come sailing Back o'er the bounding sea ! CLINTON SCOLLARD. IN THE WINTER NO BIRDS SING. " HARPER old, a love-song glad, Sing of knights with maidens wed ! " But the minstrel, thinly clad, Smiling sadly, shook his head. " Fragrant apgle blossoms blowing, White and red, and sweet and pure, Are the lyrics, bright and glowing Of the youthful troubadour. 36 A FLOWER. " But the frost-flakes with their glitter White, like blossoms, but so cold, Are the verses, vain and bitter, Of the troubadour who's old. " I've forgotten love-songs glad Of the knights with maidens wed. I am poor and thinly clad ; And the soul of music's fled." CHARLES MINER THOMPSON. A FLOWER. FAIR Maid of February ! drop of snow Enchanted to a flower, and there within A dream of April green, who without sin Conceived wast, but how no man may know ; I would thou mightest, being of heavenly kin, Pray for us all (thy lips are pure although The soil be soaked with tears and blood), to win Some pity somewhere for man's grievous woe. A foolish phantasy and fond conceit ! Yet mark this little white-green bell, three-cleft, And muse upon it. Earth is not bereft Of miracles ; lo, here is one complete : And after this the whole new springtime left, And all the roses that make summer sweet. frosts Magazine^ February, LEAFLESS HO URS. SNO W SHADO WS. 3 / LEAFLESS HOURS. THE pale sun, through the spectral wood, Gleams sparely, where I pass ; My footstep, silent as my mood, Falls in the silent grass. Only my shadow points before me, Where I am moving now ; Only sad memories murmur o'er me From every leafless bough : And out of the nest of last year's redbreast Is stolen the very snow. EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON. SNOW SHADOWS. EACH shining snowflake lets a shadow fall, As to the earth it softly sinks to rest : So, may the whitest, sweetest souls of all Seem, sometimes, wrong, to those who know them best. But, when the earth, awhile its ermine wearing, Again grows bare, despite the beauty given, Lo, a fair type of lowliest cross bearing: The ray, that casts the shadow, lifts to heaven. HENRY HARTSHORNE. 38 THE MOTH. ON THE FRENCH EXPEDITION TO RUSSIA, FEBRUARY, 1816. YE storms, resound the praises of your King ! And ye mild seasons in a sunny clime, Midway on some high hill, while Father Time Looks on delighted meet in festal ring, And loud and long of Winter's triumph sing ! Sing ye, with blossoms crowned, and fruits and flowers, Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleety showers, And the dire flapping of his hoary wing. Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass, With feet, hands, eyes, lips, report your gain ; Whisper it to the billows of the main, And to the aerial zephyrs as they pass, That old decrepit Winter, he hath slain That host which rendered all your beauties vain ! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE MOTH. WHERE for carpet lay the gaunt brown trees below Sifted snow, On a cruel sundown in a losing strife Writhed a life ; Quaking pale-brown wings and tender coming breath Fought with death. FEBRUARY. 39 Frail the moth and weak till warmed by heat of hand; Closely scanned All the horizon showed no garden summer-sweet For his feet, Yet undoubting, from the saviour palm upreared, Straight he steered Forthright to his one place in this dual world. Winter-hurled, Fine sleet stung him as he beat the evening late Toward his mate Where, by paths untrod, but O, dreamed of, Lay his love. CHARLES DE KAY. FEBRUARY. I THOUGHT the world was cold in death ; The flowers, the birds, all life was gone, For January's bitter breath Had slain the bloom and hushed the song. And still the earth is cold and white, And mead and forest yet are bare ; But there's a something in the light That says the germ of life is there. Deep down within the frozen brook I hear a murmur, faint and sweet, 4O THE THRUSH IN FEBRUARY. And lo ! the ice breaks as I look, And living waters touch my feet. Within the forest's leafless shade I hear a spring-bird's hopeful lay : O life to frozen death betrayed Thy death shall end in life to-day. And in my still heart's frozen cell The pulses struggle to be free ; While sweet the bird sings, who can tell But life may bloom again for thee ! MRS. JANE [GOODWIN] AUSTIN. THE THRUSH IN FEBRUARY. I KNOW him, February's thrush, And loud at eve he valentines On sprays that paw the naked bush Where soon will sprout the thorns and bines. Now ere the foreign singer thrills Our vale his plain-song pipe he pours, A herald of his million bills ; And heed him not, the loss is yours. My study, flanked with ivied fir And budded beech with dry leaves curled, Perched over yew and juniper, He neighbors, piping to his world : THE THRUSH IN FEBRUARY. 41 The wooded pathways dank on brown, The branches on grey cloud a web, The long green roller of the down An image of the deluge-ebb : And farther, they may hear along The stream beneath the poplar row, By fits, like welling rocks, the song Spouts of a blushful Spring in flow. But most he loves to front the vale When waves of warm southwestern rains Have left our heavens clear in pale, With faintest beck of moist red veins : Vermilion wings, by distance held To pause aflight while fleeting swift : And high aloft the pearl inshelled Her lucid glow in glow will lift : A little south of colored sky ; Directing, gravely amorous, The human of a tender eye Through pure celestial on us. Remote, not alien ; still, not cold ; Unraying yet, more pearl than star ; She seems awhile the vale to hold In trance, and homelier makes the far. 42 THE THRUSH IN FEBRUARY, The Earth her sweet unscented breathes ; An orb of lustre quits the height ; And like broad iris-flags, in wreaths The sky takes darkness, long ere quite. His Island voice then shall you hear, Nor ever after separate From such a twilight of the year Advancing to the vernal gate. He sings me, out of winter's throat, The young time with the life ahead ; And my young time his leaping note Recalls to spirit-mirth from dead. Full lasting is the song, though he, The singer, passes : lasting too, For souls not lent in usury, The rapture of the forward view. With that I bear my senses fraught Till what I am fast shoreward drives. They are the vessel of my Thought. The vessel splits, the Thought survives. Nought else are we when sailing brave Save husks to raise and bid it burn. Glimpse of its livingness will wave A light the senses can discern A VALENTINE. 43 Across the river of the death Their close. Meanwhile, O twilight bird Of promise ! bird of happy breath ! I hear, I would the City heard. GEORGE MEREDITH. A VALENTINE. (RONDEL.) AWAKE, awake, O gracious heart, There's some one knocking at the door : The chilling breezes make him smart ; His little feet are tired and sore. Arise, and welcome him before Adown his cheeks the big tears start : Awake, awake, O gracious heart, There's some one knocking at the door ! 'Tis Cupid come with loving art To honor, worship, and implore ; And lest, unwelcomed, he depart With all his wise, mysterious lore, Awake, awake, O gracious heart, There's some one knocking at the door ! FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN. In the Century Magazine. 44 A HYMN TO BISHOP SAINT VALENTINE. A HYMN TO BISHOP SAINT VALENTINE. THE day, the only day returns, The true redde letter day returns, When summer time in winter burns ; When a February dawn Is opened by two sleeves in lawn Fairer than Aurora's fingers, And a burst of all bird singers, And a shower of billet-doux, Tinging cheeks with rosy hues, And over all a face divine, Face good-natured, face most fine, Face most anti-saturnine, Even thine, yea, even thine, Saint of sweethearts, Valentine ! See he's dawning ! See he comes, With the jewels on his thumbs Glancing us a ruby ray (For he's sun and all to-day), See his lily sleeves ! and now See the mitre on his brow ! See his truly pastoral crook, And beneath his arm his book (Some sweet tome De Arte Amandt) : And his hair, 'twixt saint and dandy, Lovelocks touching either cheek, And black, though with a silver streak, As though for age both young and old, And his look, 'twixt meek and bold, A HYMN' TO BISHOP SAINT VALENTINE. 45 Bowing round on either side, Sweetly lipped and earnest-eyed, And lifting still to bless the land, His very gentlemanly hand. Hail ! oh, hail ! and thrice again Hail, thou clerk of sweetest pen ! Connubialest of clergymen ! Exquisite bishop ! not at all Like Bishop Bonner ; no, nor Hall, That gibing priest ; nor Atterbury, Although he was ingenious, very, And wrote the verses on the " Fan ; " But then he swore, unreverend man ! But very like good Bishop Berkeley, Equally benign and clerkly ; Very like Rundle, Shipley, Hoadley, And all the genial of the godly ; Like De Sales, and like De Paul ; But most, I really think of all, Like Bishop Mant, whose sweet theology Includeth verse and ornithology, And like a proper rubric star, Hath given us a new " Calendar," So full of flowers and birdly talking, 'Tisjike an Eden bower to walk in. Such another See is thine, O thou Bishop Valentine ; Such another, but as big To that, as Eden to a fig ; 46 VALENTINE VERSES. For all the world's thy diocese, All the towns and all the trees, And all the barns and villages : The whole rising generation Is thy loving congregation : Enviable indeed's thy station ; Tithes cause thee no reprobation, Dean and chapters no vexation, Heresy's no spoliation. Begged is thy participation ; No one wishes thee translation, Except for some sweet explanation. All decree thee consecration ! Beatification ! Canonization ! All cry out, with heart-prostration, Sweet's thy text-elucidation, Sweet, oh, sweet's thy visitation, And Paradise thy confirmation. JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT. VALENTINE VERSES. I SEND a sign of love ; the shower sends The breeze before it, whispering, "He is com- ing!" And the glad field her leaves and flowers bends, And hushes all her myriad insects' humming. IN FEBRUARY. 47 I send a sign of love ; the morning sends A rosy cloud, his mounted messenger ; And the glad earth in ecstasy attends, Sure now her love himself will come to her. O fairer than the field, than the whole earth, Would that thy lover's coming in thy sight Were as the rain-cloud to a land of dearth, Were as the morning to a world of night ! FRANCIS WILLIAM BOURDILLON. IN FEBRUARY. LIKE mimic meteors the snow In silence out of heaven sifts, And wanton winds that wake and blow Pile high their monumental drifts. And looking through the window-panes I see, 'mid loops and angles crossed, The dainty geometric skeins Drawn by the fingers of the Frost. 'Tis here at dawn where comes his love, All eager and with smile benign, A golden Sunbeam from above, To read the Frost's gay valentine. FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN. 48 THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY. LINES SUGGESTED BY THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY. DARKNESS succeeds to twilight : Through lattice and through skylight The stars no doubt, if one looked out, Might be observed to shine : And sitting by the embers I elevate my members On a stray chair, and then and there Commence a Valentine. Yea ! by Saint Valentinus, Emma shall not be minus What all young ladies, whate'er their grade is, Expect to-day no doubt : Emma the fair, the stately, Whom I beheld so lately, Smiling beneath the snow-white wreath Which told that she was " out." Wherefore fly to her, swallow, And mention that I'd "follow," And " pipe and trill," et cetera, till I died, had I but wings : Say the North's " true and tender," The South an old offender ; And hint in fact, with your well-known tact, All kinds of pretty things. VALENTINE IN FORM OF BALLADE. 49 Say I grow hourly thinner, Simply abhor my dinner, Though I do try and absorb some viand Each day for form's sake merely ; And ask her, when all's ended, And I am found extended, With vest blood-spotted and cut carotid, To think on Her's sincerely. CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY. VALENTINE IN FORM OF BALLADE. THE soft wind from the south land sped, He set his strength to blow, From forests where Adonis bled, And lily flowers a-row : He crossed the straits like streams that flow, The ocean dark as wine, To my true love to whisper low, To be your Valentine. The Spring half-raised her drowsy head, Besprent with drifted snow, " I'll send an April day," she said, " To lands of wintry woe." He came, the winter's overthrow, With showers that sing and shine, 50 VALENTINE'S DAY, 1873. Pied daisies round your path to strow, To be your Valentine. Where sands of Egypt, swart and red, 'Neath suns Egyptian glow, In places of the princely dead, By the Nile's overflow, The swallow preened her wings to go, And for the North did pine, And fain would brave the frost, her foe, To be your Valentine. ENVOY. Spring, Swallow, South Wind, even so, Their various voice combine ; But that they crave on me bestow, To be your Valentine. ANDREW LANG. VALENTINE'S DAY, 1873. OH ! I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the south, Settled among the alder-holts, and twittering by the stream ; I would put my tiny tail down, and put up my tiny mouth, And sing my tiny life away in one melodious dream. FORESHADOWINGS. 51 I would sing about the blossoms, and the sunshine and the sky, And the tiny wife I meant to have in such a cosy nest; And if some one came and shot me dead, why then I could but die, With my tiny life and tiny song just ended at their best. CHARLES KINGSLEY. FORESHADOWINGS. WIND of the winter night, Under the starry skies Somewhere my lady bright, Slumbering, lies, Wrapped in calm maiden dreams, Where the pale moonlight streams, Softly she sleeps. I do not know her face, Pure as the lonely star That in yon darkling space Shineth afar ; Never with soft command Touched I her willing hand, Kissed I her lips. I have not heard her voice, I do not know her name ; 52 FORESHADOWINGS. Yet doth my heart rejoice, Owning her claim ; Yet am I true to her, All that is due to her Sacred I keep. Never a thought of me Troubles her soft repose ; " Courant of mine may be Lily nor rose. They may not bear to her This heart's fond prayer to her, Yet, she is mine. Wind of the winter night, Over the fields of snow, Over the hills so white Tenderly blow ! Somewhere red roses bloom ; Into her warm, hushed room, Bear thou their breath. Whisper, Nay, nay, thou sprite, Breathe thou no tender word ; Wind of the winter night, Die thou unheard. True love shall yet prevail, Telling its own sweet tale : Till then I wait. MRS. JULIA CAROLINE [RIPLEY] DORR. THE SNOW LIES WHITE, 53 WHA T MA Y BE. WHEN the days are longer, longer, And the sun shines stronger, stronger, And the winds cease blowing, blowing, And the winter's chance of snowing Is lost in springtime weather ; And the brooks start running, running, And the bee sits sunning, sunning, And the birds come, bringing, bringing, Such good news in their singing Of love and springtime weather ; It may be there's no knowing That then, when buds are blowing, When birds are greeting, greeting, And all things mating, meeting, We two may come together, And find our springtime weather. NORA PERRY. THE SNOW LIES WHITE. THE snow lies white, and the moon gives light, I'll out to the freezing mere, And ease my heart with one little song, For none will be nigh to hear. 54 NIGHT-WINDS IN WINTER. And it's O my love, my love ! And it's O my dear, my dear ! It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring, When nobody's nigh to hear. My love is young, she is young, is young ; When she laughs the dimple dips. We walked in the wind, and her long locks blew Till sweetly they touched my lips. And I'll out to the freezing mere, Where the stiff reeds whistle so low, And I'll tell my mind to the friendly wind, Because I have loved her so. Ay, and she's true, my lady is true ! And that's the best of it all ; And when she blushes my heart so yearns That tears are ready to fall. And it's O my love, my love ! And it's O my dear, my dear ! It's of her that I'll sing till the wild woods ring, When nobody's nigh to hear. JEAN INGELOW. NIGHT-WINDS IN WINTER. WINDS ! are they winds ? or myriad ghosts, that shriek ? Ghosts of poor mariners, drowned in northern seas, A BITTER WINTER. 55 Beside the surf-tormented Hebrides, Whose voices now of tide-born terror speak In tones to blanch the boldest listener's cheek ? Hark ! how they thunder down the far-off leas, Sweep the scourged hills, and smite the woodland trees, To die where towers yon glittering mountain-peak ! A moment's stillness ! Then with lustier might Of wing and voice, these marvellous wraiths of air Fill with dread sound the ominous heights of night. Athwart their stormful breath the star-throngs fade : How dimmed is Cassiopaeia's radiant chair, While Perseus droops, touched by transfiguring shade ! PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE. A BITTER WINTER. IT was a winter such as when birds die In the deep forests ; and the fishes lie Stiffened in the translucent ice, which makes Even the mud and slime of the warm lakes A wrinkled clod as hard as brick ; and when, Among their children, comfortable men Gather about great fires, and yet feel cold : Alas then for the homeless beggar old ! PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. Summer and Winter. 56 FEBRUARY. ZERO IN THE SUN. FEBRUARY. WAN, wind-wracked month, of all the months most bare Of outward beauty or of inward grace ; Reserved of ancient custom to efface By sacrificial offering, whate'er Of taint was held to be the whole year's share : One day, at least, thy cold, gray arms embrace, That serves to set a dimple in thy face And by its fairness make the rest more fair : The happy day when birds begin to woo And win fond mates, to bless the tiny nest, Already modeled in the tinier breast ; The happy day in which, sweetheart, for you, A rosier tint o'erspreads this breast of mine, Sending its message through Saint Valentine. MRS. MARY [BARKER] DODGE. ZERO IN THE SUN. i. As rail tracks shorten in the cold, Obedient to Nature's law, So shrinks the man of iron mould, When these rude winds their weapons draw, These " eager airs " of icy breath, Whose myriad poniards, piercing, chilling, WINTER TIME. . 57 Seem dealing back a vengeful death, For cuts of that proverbial shilling. The fuel-vendors thank their stars That Lehigh higher yet must go ; And babies cuddle close to Mars, Because the Mercury is low; And Sunday at the twilight hour, Once lit by tinder flames of Venus, My flame bewails, with visage sour, The coldness that has come between us. I'll don my double-worsted hose ; I'll pile the grate with embers bright ; I'll read my Burns, and toast my toes, And sing the songs the skalds indite. Drink ginger-tea as pudding thick, Compounded in a red-hot can, Stirred with a fire-wood toddy-stick, And ladled with a warming-pan. ROSSITER JOHNSON. WINTER TIME. LATE lies the wintry sun a-bed, A frosty, fiery sleepy-head ; Blinks but an hour or two ; and then, A blood-red orange, sets again. 58 SLEDGE BELLS. Before the stars have left the skies, At morning in the dark I rise ; And shivering in my nakedness, By the cold candle, bathe and dress. Close by the jolly fire I sit To warm my frozen bones a bit ; Or with a reindeer-sled, explore The colder countries round the door. When to go out, my nurse doth wrap Me in my comforter and cap ; The cold wind burns my face, and blows Its frosty pepper up my nose. Black are my steps on silver sod ; Thick blows my frosty breath abroad ; And tree and house, and hill and lake, Are frosted like a wedding-cake. ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. A Child's Garden of Verses. SLEDGE BELLS. THE logs burn red ; she lifts her head, For sledge bells tinkle and tinkle, O lightly swung. " Youth was a pleasant morning, but ah ! to think 'tis fled, Sae lang, lang syne," quo' her mother, " I, too, was young." PANSIES. 59 No guides there are but the North star, And the moaning forest tossing wild arms before, The maiden murmurs, " O sweet were yon bells afar, And hark ! hark ! hark ! for he cometh, he nears the door." Swift north-lights show, and scatter and go. How can I meet him, and smile not, on this cold shore ? Nay, I will call him, " Come in from the night and the snow, And love, love, love in the wild wood, wander no more." JEAN INGELOW. PANSIES. I SEND thee pansies while the year is young, Yellow as sunshine, purple as the night ; Flowers of remembrance, ever fondly sung By all the chiefest of the Sons of Light ; And if in recollection lives regret For wasted days and dreams that were not true, I tell thee that the " pansy freak'd with jet " Is still the heart's-ease that the poets knew. Take all the sweetness of a gift unsought, And for the pansies send me back a thought. SARAH DOUDNEY. 60 A WINTER PIECE. A WINTER PIECE. THE time has been that these wild solitudes, Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me Oftener than now ; and when the ills of life Had chafed my spirit when the unsteady pulse Beat with strange flutterings I would wander forth And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path Was to me as a friend. The swelling hills, The quiet dells retiring far between, With gentle invitation to explore Their windings, were a calm society That talked with me and soothed me. Then the chant Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began To gather simples by the fountain's brink, And lose myself in day dreams. While I stood In Nature's loneliness, I was with one With whom I early grew familiar, one Who never had a frown for me, whose voice Never rebuked me for the hours I stole From cares I loved not, but of which the world Deems highest, to converse with her. When shrieked The bleak November winds, and smote the woods, And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades, That met above the merry rivulet, Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still ; they seemed A WINTER PIECE. 6 1 Like old companions in adversity. Still there was beauty in my walks ; the brook, Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay As with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar, The village with its spires, the path of streams And dim receding valleys, hid before By interposing trees, lay visible Through the bare grove, and my familiar haunts Seemed new to me. Nor was I slow to come Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts, Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow, And all was white. The pure keen air abroad, Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard Love-call of bird nor merry hum of bee, Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds, That lay along the boughs, instinct with life, Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring, Feared not the piercing spirit of the North. The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough, And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves, The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track Of fox, and the raccoon's broad path, were there, Crossing each other. From his hollow tree The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold. 62 A WINTER PIECE. But Winter has yet brighter scenes, he boasts Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows ; Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods All flushed with many hues. Come when the rains Have glazed the snow and clothed the trees with ice, While the slant sun of February pours Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach ! The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps, And the broad arching portals of the grove Welcome thy entering. Look ! the massy trunks Are cased in the pure crystal ; each light spray, Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven, Is studded with its trembling water-drops, That glimmer with an amethystine light But round the parent stem the long low boughs Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbors hide The glassy floor. Oh ! you might deem the spot The spacious cavern of some virgin mine, Deep in the womb of earth where the gems grow, And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud With amethyst and topaz and the place Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night, And fades not in the glory of the sun ; Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts And crossing arches ; and fantastic aisles Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye ; Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault ; A WINTER PIECE. 63 There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose, And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air, And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light ; Light without shade. But all shall pass away With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont. And it is pleasant, when the noisy streams Are just set free, and milder suns melt off The plashy snow, save only the firm drift In the deep glen or the close shade of pines, 'Tis pleasant to behold the wreaths of smoke Roll up among the maples of the hill, Where the shrill sound of youthful voices wakes The shriller echo, as the clear pure lymph, That from the wounded trees, in twinkling drops Falls, mid the golden brightness of the morn, Is gathered in with brimming pails, and oft, Wielded by sturdy hands, the stroke of axe Makes the woods ring. Along the quiet air, Come and float calmly off the soft light clouds, Such as you see in summer, and the winds Scarce stir the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft, Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone The little windflower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at, 64 TO A BIRD IN WINTER. Startling the loiterer in the naked groves With unexpected beauty, for the time Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar. And ere it comes, the encountering winds shall oft Muster their wrath again, and rapid clouds Shade heaven, and bounding on the frozen earth Shall fall their volleyed stores, rounded like hail And white like snow, and the loud North again Shall buffet the vexed forest in his rage. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. TO A BIRD THA T HA UNTED THE IV A TERS OF LAAKEN IN WINTER. O MELANCHOLY bird, a winter's day Thou standest by the margin of the pool, And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school To patience, which all evil can allay. God has appointed thee the fish thy prey, And given thyself a lesson to the fool Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule, And his unthinking course by thee to weigh. There need not schools nor the professor's chair, Though these be good, true wisdom to impart : He who has not enough for these to spare, Of time or gold, may yet amend his heart, And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair, Nature is always wise in every part. EDWARD HOVELL-THURLOW. ON THE WIND IN FEBRUARY. 65 A WIA T TER NIGHT. How calm, how solemn, how sublime the scene ! The moon in full-orbed glory sails above, And stars in myriads around her move, Each looking down with watchful eye serene On earth, which, in a snowy shroud arrayed, And still, as if in death's embrace 'twere laid, Saddens the spirit with its corpse-like mien : Yet doth it charm the eye, its gaze still hold ; Just as the face of one we loved, when cold And pale and lovely e'en in death 'tis seen, Will fix the mourner's eye, though trembling fears Fill all his heart, and thickly fall his tears ; O, I could watch till morn should change the sight, This cold, this beautiful, this mournful winter night. MRS. ELIZABETH CLEMENTINE [DODGE] [STEDMAN] KINNEY. ON THE WIND IN FEBRUARY. ON the wind in February Snowflakes float still, Half inclined to turn to rain, Nipping, dripping, chill. Then the thaws swell the streams, And swollen rivers swell the sea : If the winter ever ends How pleasant it will be. CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI. A Year's Windfalls. 66 DESOLATE. DESOLA TE. FROM the sad eaves the drip-drop of the rain ! The water washing at the latchel door ; A slow step plashing by upon the moor ; A single bleat far from the famished fold ; The clicking of an embered hearth and cold ; The rainy robin tic-tac at the pane. " So as it is with thee Is it with me, So as it is and it used not to be, With thee used not to be, Nor me." So singeth robin on the willow tree, The rainy robin tic-tac at the pane. Here in this breast all day The fire is dim and low, Within I care not to stay, Without I care not to go. A sadness ever sings Of unforgotten things, And the bird of love is patting at the pane ; But the wintry water deepens at the door, And a step is plashing by upon the moor Into the dark upon the darkening moor, And alas, alas, the drip-drop of the rain ! SYDNEY THOMPSON DOBELL. FEBRUARY RAIN. 6/ FEBRUARY RAIN. O LONELY day ! No sounds are heard Save winds and floods that downward pour, And timid fluting of a bird, That pipes one low note o'er and o'er. Before the blast the bare trees lean, The ragged clouds sail low and gray, And all the wild and wintry scene Is but one blur of driving spray. O day most meet for memories, For musing by a vacant hearth On that which was and that which is, And those who walk no more on earth ! And yet this dark and dreary day Some brighter lesson still can bring, For it is herald of the May, A faint foretoken of the spring. Beneath the ceaseless-beating rain Earth's snowy shroud fast disappears, As sorrow pressing on the brain, Fades in a flood of happy tears. And thus in darkness oft is wrought, Through lonely days of tears and grief, The gradual change by which is brought To shadowed lives some sweet relief. CHARLES TURNER DAZEY. 68 FEBRUAR Y. SEASONS. FEBRUARY. RAIN hail sleet snow But in my East This is the time when palm-trees quicken With flowers, wherefrom the Arabs' feast Of amber dates will thenceforth thicken. Female and male apart they grow ; And o'er the desert sands is wafted, On light airs of the After-glow, That golden dust whence fruit is grafted. No gray reality's alloy Your green ideal can diminish ! You have love's kiss, in all its joy, Without love's lips, which let us finish ! EDWIN ARNOLD. SEASONS. THE cold winds rave on the icy river, The leafless branches complain and shiver, The snow clouds sweep on, to a dreary tune, Can these be the earth and the heavens of June ? The cold wind sweeps o'er the desolate hill, The stream is bound fast and the wolds are chill ; And by the dead flats, where the cold blasts moan, A bent body wearily plods alone. LEWIS MORRIS. THE BELLS. IN A WINTER STORM. 69 THE BELLS. HEAR the sledges with their bells, Silver bells, What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night ! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight ; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells, From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. EDGAR ALLAN POE. IN A WINTER STORM. MY Effie, if I take you so Upon my knee for stories brave, This true tale first. One year ago They broke the snow to make his grave. The sun is hid, the wind is wild, The sunken rocks moan east and west ; But, lovely as a little child, He keeps blown lilies on his breast. LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. JO A WINTER AFTERNOON. A BOOK OF NATURE. THE Winter's a book of poems, Sorrowful fantasies, All pictured with empty bird-nests, Held in the lonely trees. The turquoise skies are the covers, Begilt with sunbeams long, The drifts of snow are the pages, And the moaning winds the song. RICHARD KENDALL MUNKITTRICK. In The Century Magazine. A WINTER AFTERNOON. I STAND where in the summer I have stood, But all is changed. There is no sight of green Save yonder, in the stiff-branched cedar wood, Whose dull, cold leaves are gloomy to be seen ; The little hill great growth of grass was there, Where careless crickets leaped and sang before Rusty and dead, slopes slowly down to where Foul ice lies stranded on the slimy shore : For the sad river with a low, dull moan, Leaving his shore flows sullenly apart. But I, who stand in silence here alone Looking on these, am nothing sad at heart ; For over all there is a pure, bright sky, Wherein the sun is shining gloriously. ROBERT KELLEY WEEKS. AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. /I AFTERNOON IN FEBRUARY. THE day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red. The snow recommences ; The buried fences Mark no longer The road o'er the plain ; While through the meadows, Like fearful shadows, Slowly passes A funeral train. The bell is pealing, And every feeling Within me responds To the dismal knell ; Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing And tolling within Like a funeral bell. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 72 WINTER. WINTER. THE golden sunshine has fled away, The clouds o'erhead hang heavy and gray, The world is woefully sad to-day ; And I am thinking of you, dear, you. The cold clay hides from the rain and dew The tenderest heart that the world e'er knew. Why should I think of you when the rain Smiteth so sharply the window-pane, And the wild winds round the old house 'plain ? You were so sweet and sunny and bright, Ever your presence brought life and light, And I recall you in storm and night. When snow-shrouds hang on the corpse-cold trees, When sharp frosts sting and the north winds freeze, What has your memory to do with these ? O fair lost love ! O love that is dead ! The pleasant days from my life are fled, The rosy morns and the sunset red. The light has faded from out my life, Leaving the clouds and the stormy strife, And the keen, sharp cold that cuts like a knife. THE CRICKET. 73 The days and the months how slow they glide, Gray-robed and cold-breathed and frozen-eyed ! The summer died for me when you died. O world of woe and of want and pain ! O heaven of clouds and storm and rain ! When shall I find my summer again ? MRS. LUCY HAMILTON QONES] HOOPER THE CRICKET. LITTLE inmate, full of mirth, Chirping on my kitchen hearth, Wheresoe'er be thine abode Always harbinger of good, Pay me for thy warm retreat With a song more soft and sweet ; In return thou shalt receive Such a strain as I can give. Thus thy praise shall be expressed, Inoffensive, welcome guest ! While the rat is on the scout, And the mouse with curious snout, With what vermin else infest Every dish, and spoil the best ; Frisking thus before the fire, Thou hast all thy heart's desire. 74 TO A SNOWDROP. Though in voice and shape they be Formed as if akin to thee, Thou surpasses!, happier far, Happiest grasshoppers that are ; Their's is but a summers song, Thine endures the winter long, Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear, Melody throughout the year. WILLIAM COWPER. TO A SNOWDROP. LONE Flower, hemmed in with snows, and white as they, But hardier far, once more I see thee bend Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day Storms, sallying from the mountain-tops, waylay The rising sun, and on the plains descend, Yet art thou welcome, welcome as a friend Whose zeal outruns his promise ! Blue-eyed May Shall soon behold this border thickly set With bright jonquils, their odors lavishing On the soft West Wind and his frolic peers ; Nor will I then thy modest grace forget, Chaste Snowdrop, venturous harbinger of spring, And pensive monitor of fleeting years ! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE SNOWDROP IN THE SNOW. ?$ A LEGEND OF THE SNOWDROP. IN the late winter, when the breath of spring Had almost softened the great fields of snow, A mother died, and, wandering to and fro, Her sad child sought her frightened, little thing ! Through the drear woodland, as on timid wing Flutters a young bird ; amid bushes low It sunk in sleep, thus losing all its woe, With smiling lips her dear name murmuring : No loving arms were there to hold it fast, There were no kisses for it warm and sweet, But snowflakes, pitying, fell like frozen tears. Then said its angel, " Snowflakes, ye shall last Beyond the life of snowflakes ; at spring's feet Bloom ye as flowers through all the coming years ! " MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN. THE SNOWDROP IN THE SNOW. FULL of Faith! The Earth is rock, the Heaven The dome of a great palace all of ice, Russ-built. Dull light distils through frozen skies Thickened and gross. Cold Fancy droops her wing, And cannot range. In winding-sheets of snow Lies every thought of any pleasant thing. 1 have forgotten the green earth ; my soul Deflowered, and lost to every summer hope, 76 THE SNOWDROP IN THE SNOW. Sad sitteth on an iceberg at the Pole ; My heart assumes the landscape of mine eyes Moveless and white, chill blanched with hoarest rime ; The sun himself is heavy and lacks cheer Or on the eastern hill or western slope ; The world without seems far and long ago ; To silent woods stark famished winds have driven The last lean robin, gibbering winds of fear ! Thou only darest to believe in spring, Thou only smilest, Lady of the Time ! Even as the stars come up out of the sea Thou risest from the earth. How is it down In the dark depths ? Should I delve there, O Flower, For beauty ? Shall I find the summer there Met manifold as in an ark of peace ? And thou, a lone white dove, art thou sent forth Upon the winter deluge ? It shall cease, But not for thee, pierced by the ruthless North And spent with the Evangel. In what hour The flood abates thou wilt have closed thy wings Forever. When the happy living things Of the old world come forth upon the new I know my heart shall miss thee ; and the dew Of summer twilights shall shed tears for me Tears liker thee, ah, purest ! than mine own Upon thy vestal grave, O vainly fair ! Thou shouldst have noble destiny, who, like A prophet, art shut out from kind and kin : Who on the winter silence comest in A still small voice. Pale Hermit of the Year, THE SNOWSTORM. 77 Flower of the wilderness ! oh, not for thee The jocund playmates of the maiden spring. For, when she danceth forth with cymbaled feet, Waking a-sudden with great welcoming, Each calling each, they burst from hill to dell In answering music. But thou art a bell, A passing bell, snow-muffled, dim and sweet. Thou art the wonder of the seasons, O Firstborn of Beauty. As the Angel near Gazed on that first of living things which, when The blast that ruled since Chaos o'er the sere Leaves of primeval palms did sweep the plain, Clung to the new-made sod and would not drive, So gaze I upon thee amid the reign Of Winter. SYDNEY THOMPSON DOBELL. THE SNOWSTORM. THE clouds are gathering slowly ; dark and vast Appear their misty outlines to the eye, As they advance before the moaning blast, Obscuring all the pale, blue winter sky. And now the feathery snowflakes slowly fly In many a mazy circle round and round, Like some poor bird, that, soaring far on high, With heart convulsive feels the deadly wound, And wings his helpless flight reluctant to the ground. 78 LONGING FOR SPRING. And now they faster fall, the biting air Is filled with crystals on their downward flight, Wrapping the face of nature drear and bare With one wide mantle of pure, spotless white. The snowstorm ceases as the shades of night Fall soft and gentle o'er a quiet world, Which grows more lovely in the evening light, Till in the sky night's banner hangs unfurled, And swift and far away the gloomy clouds are hurled. O scene of purest beauty ! far and wide O'er one unbroken, glittering expanse On hill and plain ; on each and every side Some lovely object will enchain the glance. Brightly the moonbeams fall, and lightly dance Upon each crystal which reflects as clear The silvery light, as jewels of romance Hung in the pendant of a beauty's ear, Who lightly nods and laughs and knows no rival near. CHARLES TURNER DAZEY. LONGING FOR SPRING. DIP down upon the northern shore, O sweet new year, delaying long : Thou doest expectant nature wrong : Delaying long, delay no more. THE SNOW-BIRD. 79 What stays thee from the clouded noons, Thy sweetness from its proper place ? Can trouble live with April days, Or sadness in the summer moons ? Bring orchis, bring the foxglove spire, The little speedwell's darling blue, Deep tulips dashed with fiery dew, Laburnums, dropping-wells of fire. O thou, new year, delaying long, Delayest the sorrow in my blood, That longs to burst a frozen bud, And flood a fresher throat with song. ALFRED TENNYSON. In Memoriam. THE SNOW-BIRD. IN the rosy light trills the gay swallow, The thrush, in the roses below : The meadow lark sings in the meadow, But the snow-bird sings in the snow. Ah me ! Chicadee ! The snow-bird sings in the snow ! The blue martin trills in the gable, The wren, in the gourd below ; 80 WHERE NOW THE VITAL ENERGY. In the elm, flutes the golden robin, But the snow-bird sings in the snow. Ah me ! Chicadee ! The snow-bird sings in the snow ! High wheels the gray wing of the osprey, The wing of the sparrow drops low ; In the mist dips the wing of the robin, And the snow-bird's wing in the snow. Ah me ! Chicadee ! The snow-bird sings in the snow. I love the high heart of the osprey, The meek heart of the thrush, below, The heart of the lark in the meadow, And the snow-bird's heart in the snow. But dearest to me, Chicadee ! Chicadee ! Is that true little heart in the snow. HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH. WHERE NOW THE VITAL ENERGY. WHERE now the vital energy that moved While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph Through the imperceptible meandering veins Of leaf and flower ? It sleeps ; and the icy touch WHERE NOW THE VITAL ENERGY. 8 1 Of unprolific winter has impressed A cold stagnation on the intestine tide. But let the months go round, a few short months, And all shall be restored. These naked shoots, Barren as lances, among which the wind Makes wintry music, sighing as it goes, Shall put their graceful foliage on again, And more aspiring, and with ampler spread, Shall boast new charms, and more than they have lost. Then each, in its peculiar honors clad, Shall publish, even to the distant eye, Its family and tribe. Laburnum, rich In streaming gold ; syringa, ivory pure ; The scentless and the scented rose ; this red, And of an humbler growth, the other tall, And throwing up into the darkest gloom Of neighboring cypress, or more sable yew, Her silver globes, light as the foamy surf, That the wind severs from the broken wave ; The lilac, various in array, now white, Now sanguine, and her beauteous head now set With purple spikes pyramidal, as if Studious of ornament, yet unresolved Which hue she most approved, she chose them all ; Copious of flowers the woodbine, pale and wan, But well compensating her sickly looks With never cloying odors, early and late ; Hypericum all bloom, so thick a swarm Of flowers, like flies clothing her slender rods, 82 A WINTER THOUGHT. That scarce a leaf appears ; mezereon too, Though leafless, well attired, and thick beset \Vilh blushing wreaths, investing every spray ; Althaea with the purple eye ; the broom, Yellow and bright, as bullion unalloyed, Her blossoms ; and luxuriant above all The deep dark green of whose unvarnished leaf Makes more conspicuous, and illumines more The bright profusion of her scattered stars. These have been, and these shall be in their day ; And all this uniform uncolored scene Shall be dismantled of its fleecy load, And flush into variety again. WILLIAM COWPER. The Task. A WINTER THOUGHT. IN bare, gnarled arms the gaunt trees take The biting winds with many a shiver, Keen winds that sweep the land, and shake In frozen furrows all the smooth sweet bosom of the river. Bare is the land of bird and flower. O Mother Earth ! art thou forsaken In this thy darkest, dreariest hour ? Have birds and flowers, with summer airs, their flight unkindly taken ? THE WINTER WIND. 83 And but for this, that in the breast Of winter the young spring is sleeping, The briefest insect life were best, And our life day by day were but a time for hopeless weeping. But Memory, smiling through her tears, And wild Hope, whisper unto me, " Day crowns the springs of all the years, And glad as thy springs were of old, thy springs again shall be." Then fast by violet-broidered brims The frozen river seems to run, The trees put forth their leafy limbs To catch the fragrance of the breeze, the warmth of May-day sun. MARTIN J. GRIFFIN. THE WINTER WIND. DOWN swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, From the snow five thousand summers old ; On open wold and hill-top bleak It had gathered all the cold, And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek ; It carried a shiver everywhere From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. The Vision of Sir Launfal. 84 A VISION OF SPRING IN WINTER. A VISION OF SPRING IN WINTER. O TENDER time that love thinks long to see, Sweet foot of spring that with her footfall sows Late snow-like flowery leavings of the snows, Be not too long irresolute to be ! mother-month, where have they hidden thee ? Out of the pale time of the flowerless rose, 1 reach my heart out toward the springtime lands. I stretch my spirit forth to the fair hours, The purplest of the prime ; I lean my soul down over them, with hands Made wide to take the ghostly growths of flowers ; I send my love back to the lovely time. Where has the greenwood hid thy gracious head ? Veiled with what visions while the gray world grieves, Or muffled with what shadows of green leaves, With warm intangible green shadows spread To sweeten the sweet twilight for thy bed ? What sleep enchants thee ? what delight deceives ? Where the deep dreamlike dew before the dawn Feels not the fingers of the sunlight yet Its silver web unweave, Thy footless ghost on some unfooted lawn Whose air the unrisen sunbeams fear to fret Lives a ghost's life of daylong dawn and eve. Sunrise it sees not, neither set of star, Large nightfall, nor imperial plenilune, A VISION OF SPRING IN WINTER. 85 Nor strong sweet shape of the full-breasted noon ; But where the silver-sandaled shadows are, Too soft for arrows of the sun to mar, Moves with the mild gait of an ungrown moon : Hard overhead the half-lit crescent swims, The tender-colored night draws hardly breath, The light is listening; They watch the dawn of slender-shapen limbs, Virginal, born again of doubtful death, Chill foster-father of the weanling spring. As sweet desire of day before the day, As dreams of love before the true love born, From the outer edge of winter overworn The ghost arisen of May before the May Takes through dim air her unawakened way, The gracious ghost of morning risen ere morn. With little unblown breasts and child-eyed looks Following, the very maid, the girl-child spring, Lifts windward her bright boughs, Dips her light feet in warm and moving brooks, And kindles with her own month's coloring The fearful firstlings of the plumeless boughs. I seek thee sleeping, and awhile I see, Fair face that art not, how thy maiden breath Shall put at last the deadly days to death, And fill the fields and fire the woods with thee, And seaward hollows where my feet would be When heaven shall hear the word that April saith 86 A VISION OF SPRING IN WINTER. To change the cold heart of the weary time, To stir and soften all the time to tears, Tears joyfuller than mirth ; As even to May's clear height the young days climb With feet not swifter than those fair first years Whose flowers revive not with thy flowers on earth. I would not bid thee, though I might, give back One good thing youth has given and borne away : I crave not any comfort of the day That is not, nor on time's re-trodden track Would turn to meet the white-robed hours or black That long since left me on their mortal way; Nor light nor love that has been, nor the breath That comes with morning from the sun to be, And sets light hope on fire ; No fruit, no flower thought once too fair for death, No flower nor hour once fallen from life's green tree, No leaf once plucked, or once fulfilled desire. The morning song beneath the stars that fled With twilight through the moonless mountain air, While youth with burning lips and wreathless hair Sang toward the sun that was to crown his head, Rising ; the hopes that triumphed and fell dead, The sweet swift eyes and songs of hours that were, These may'st thou not give back forever ; these. IN FEBRUARY. 8? As at the sea's heart all her wrecks lie waste, Lie deeper than the sea ; But flowers thou may'st, and winds, and hours of ease, And all its April to the world thou may'st Give back, and half my April back to me. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. IN FEBRUARY. THE birds have been singing to-day And saying : " The spring is near ! The sun is as warm as in May, And the deep blue heavens are clear." The little bird on the boughs Of the sombre snow-laden pine Thinks : " Where shall I build me my house, And how shall I make it fine ? " For the season of snow is past ; The mild south wind is on high ; And the scent of the spring is cast From his wing as he hurries by." The little birds twitter and cheep To their loves on the leafless larch : But seven foot deep the snow-wreaths sleep, And the year hath not worn to March. JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. 88 FEBRUARY. THE FROZEN RIVER. FEBRUARY. STILL lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white ; And reigns the winter's pregnant silence, still : No sign of spring, save that the catkins fill, And willow stems grow daily red and bright. These are the days when ancients held a rite Of expiation for the old year's ill, And prayer to purify the new year's will : Fit days, ere yet the spring rains blur the sight, Ere yet the bounding blood grows hot with haste And dreaming thoughts grow heavy with a greed The ardent summer's joy to have and taste : Fit days to take to last year's losses heed, To reckon clear the new life's sterner need ; Fit days for Feast of Expiation placed ! MRS. HELEN MARIA [FISKE] [HUNT] JACKSON. THE FROZEN RIVER. DEAD stream beneath the icy silent blocks That motionless stand soddening into grime, Thy fretted falls hang numb, frost pens the locks ; Dead river, when shall be thy waking time ? " Not dead ; " the river spoke and answered me, " My burdened current, hidden, finds the sea." " Not dead, not dead ; " my heart replied at length, " The frozen river holds a hidden strength." MRS. AUGUSTA [DAVIES] WEBSTER. WINTER RAIN. 89 WINTER RAIN. EVERY valley drinks, Every dell and hollow ; Where the kind rain sinks and sinks, Green of spring will follow. Yet a lapse of weeks Buds will burst their edges, Strip their wool-coats, glue-coats, streaks, In the woods and hedges. Weave a bower of love , For birds to meet each other, Weave a canopy above Nest and egg and mother. But for fattening rain We should have no flowers, Never a bud or leaf again But for soaking showers ; Never a mated bird In the rocking tree-tops, Never indeed a flock or herd To graze upon the lea-crops. Lambs so woolly white Sheep the sun-bright leas on, They could have no grass to bite But for rain in season. 90 DIE DOWN, O DISMAL DAY. We should find no moss In the shadiest places, Find no waving meadow grass Pied with broad-eyed daisies : But miles of barren sand, With never a son or daughter, Not a lily on the land, Or lily on the water. CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI. DIE DOWX, O DISMAL DAY. DIE down, O dismal day ! and let me live. And come, blue deeps ! magnificently strewn With colored clouds large, light and fugitive By upper winds through pompous motions blown. Now it is death in life, a vapor dense Creeps round my window till I cannot see The far snow-shining mountains, and the glens Shagging the mountain-tops. O God ! make free This barren, shackled earth, so deadly cold, Breathe gently forth Thy spring, till winter flies In rude amazement, fearful and yet bold, While she performs her customed charities. I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare : O God ! for one clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air! DAVID GRAY. In the Shadows. UNDER THE SNOWDRIFT. 9! E VANESCENCE. OVER thy marbles shines this moon An icicle in the sun, A prison of fire, a palace of frost, A miracle-world begun ; All heaven's hues in its rondure pale, With its exquisite life undone ! Child, thine was the beauty firm and fair, Thine, too, was the changeful glow ; So in the snow-time wert thou born, Our winter jewel ; and so, When close on the noon, from the natal height, Fell soft and sudden thy lone sweet light, Again 'twas the time of the snow. LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. UNDER THE SNOWDRIFT, UNDER the snowdrift the blossoms are sleeping, Dreaming their dreams of sunshine and June, Down in the hush of their quiet they're keeping Thrills from the throstle's wild summer-swung tune. Under the snowdrifts what blossoms are sleeping Never to waken with sunshine or June ! Do they dream dreams of the eyes that are weeping, Under the snowdrift, by midnight and noon ? MRS. HARRIET ELIZABETH [PRESCOTT] SPOFFORD. 92 WHEN SPRINGTIDE COMES. WHEN SPRINGTIDE COMES. YOUR change draws near, O changeless pall of grey ! Thou dull brown plain, ye silent woods and sere ! Heaven will be blue and earth be green and gay, And bird and beast be joyous, and life be dear, When springtide comes. Far o'er the fields will sound the new lamb's bleat ; The lark will mount his topmost stair of song ; From high elm-boughs the treble and tenor sweet Of thrush and blackbird mingle all day long. The woodbine branch will dart its winged sprays ; The palm-gold rend its casket ; whorl by whorl Her fragile ladder will the cleaver raise ; The arum-scroll will silently unfurl. And soon from woody coverts, and beds of grass, Arrayed in vestments all of delicate hue, Meet for the court of the maiden year, will pass Troops of white flowers and yellow, pink and blue. The shy windflower will nestle 'neath the trees ; Primrose and violet haunt the mossy bank ; Cowslip and king-cup spread o'er the downs and leas, Robin and lady-smock o'er meadows dank. The limes will redden and the oaks embrown ; To chestnut-buds a glistening dew will rise : WHEN SPRINGTIDE COMES. 93 The feathering alders to the lake stoop down ; The virgin hazels ope their crimson eyes. And then, watch howso patiently we may, A touch eludes our ken. The beechen tops To-day are golden, willow-wands are grey ; To morrow a green cloud enfolds the copse. And if perchance an ice-breath from the North, Or marsh-air tainted with the Orient's guile, Smite leaf and blossom brought untimely forth, The sun will rise and heal them with a smile. Anon from the south will stream a gentle blast And bid the jewelled cones of the larches flash, From the rough oak woo tender shoots, and last Unclench the rigid fingers of the ash. With field and wood thus bathed in clear green light, And ringing with bird-voices night and day, Dells hyacinth-blue and hedges hawthorn-white, Will God's glad earth renew herself in May. And ye, O torpid fancy and dull heart ! Fettered and chilled in winter's prison so long, Will not the touch of sunshine make ye start, Put on new plumes and tune a fresher song, When springtide comes ? HENRY G. HEWLETT. 94 THE SNOWSTORM. THE SNOWDROP. THE SNOWSTORM. THE morning skies are dull and streaked with gray ; And silently upon the frosty air The scattered snowflakes flutter here and there, And skip and dance like fairies in their play, Poising awhile, then frolicking away. Noon comes, and lo ! the hills, that were so bare, Are robed in dazzling garments, pure and fair ; The trees seem blossoming in some strange way ; And when once more the air towards evening clears, And when the fleecy shower of white subsides, A wondrous transformation then appears ! The barren ground from sight so closely hides Beneath that stainless spread, it almost seems As though we gaze upon the land of dreams ! ERNEST WARBURTON SHURTLEFF. THE SNOWDROP. THE first flower of the infant year, Through kindred snows that springeth, Though gemmed with many a frozen tear, Is to my musing soul more dear Than all that gay June bringeth, When blossomed brier and rosy flowers Look bright in summer sun and showers. For this lone child of wintry air, Midst adverse storms appearing, SAFE. 95 Resembleth spirits, sweet and fair, Who, in this world of grief and care, Its bitter woes are cheering ; Serene amidst its ceaseless strife, And smiling on the ills of life. Like them thou meekly art, pale flower, The tempest's warfare meeting ; Although the rude winds shake thy bower, And on thy form, with ruthless power, The icy storms are beating, Yet, still thy oft crushed buds we see Retain their spotless purity. And their first pledge of coming spring, The new-born year revealeth, Shall thoughts of tenderer interest bring Than all she from her lap shall fling, When summer suns she feeleth ; For, thou dost from her leafless breast Look forth and promise all the rest. AGNES STRICKLAND. SAFE. WILD wintry wind, storm through the night, Dash the black clouds against the sky, Hiss through the billows seething white, Fling the rock-surf in spray on high. 96 LAKE CAYUGA IN WINTER. Hurl the high seas on harbor bars, Madden them with thy havoc-shriek Against the crimson beacon-stars, Thy rage no more can make me weak. The ship rides safely in the bay, The ship that held my hope in her : Whirl on, wild wind, in thy wild fray, We hear our whispers through the stir. MRS. AUGUSTA [DAVIES] WEBSTER. LAKE CAYUGA IN WINTER. THY cold, unmoved face, severely fair, Responds no more to the sun's loving glance ; Thy summer life is chilled by winter's air ; The jealous frost-king holds thee locked in trance. Yet I have seen thee, on a July day, Sparkling and flashing in the heat of noon, Or stretching blue and sea-like, far away, 'Neath the illusion of a summer moon. And when the storms have fretted thee too long, Have I not seen thy white waves dash ashore, Voicing a wild, defying battle-song, That rose above the roused wind's angry roar ? But now thou'rt like a thing without a heart, White-stretching, like the ice-ghost of a lake : A PLAQUE OF APPLE-BLOOMS. 97 The cold hath stricken thee, even as a dart; Thou art so dead thou never canst awake ! But a voice answers, " When the spring winds come, And comes the sun with his own golden key, I shall awaken at the gathering hum Of the birds flying over, calling me ! " And like the frozen lake is many a heart That seems fast-locked in a strange, living death : It will awaken with a throbbing start When blown upon by Love's sweet summer breath ! MRS. LAURA CATHERINE [REDDEN] SEARING. ON RECEIVING A PLAQUE OF APPLE- BLOOMS. (IN WINTER.) FOR me these apple-blossoms bloom, Fair May flowers in this time of snow. (How fragrant was the sweet perfume Of those rare buds of long ago !) You are the saint that made them blow, That wrought the miracle of time, And, for your pinky blooms a-row, Accept this tiny flower of rhyme. CLINTON SCOLLARD. 98 THE FROST INCREASED, THE FROST INCREASED. . . . THE frost increased, and the thin snow From off the iron ground the wind did blow, And in the cold, dark stream, from either bank The ice stretched forth ; at last, ere the sun sank, One bitter day, low grew the clouds and dun A little northward of the setting sun, Wherefrom, at nightfall, sprung a furious blast, That ere the middle of the night was past, Brought up the snow from some untrodden land. So, 'mid the many changes of the night, The silent snow fell till the world was white, And to those southland folk entrapped, forlorn The waking was upon the morrow morn. Most pitiless and stark the winter grew Meanwhile, beneath a sky of cloudless blue, And sun that warmed not, till they nigh forgot The green lush spring, the summer rich and hot, The autumn fragrant with slow-ripening fruit ; Till each grew listless, dull to the heart's root ; For day passed day and yet no change they saw In the white sparkling plain without a flaw, No cloud, no change within the sunny sky, Or in the wind, that rose at noon, to die Before the sunset, and no change at all In the drear silence of the dead nightfall. WILLIAM MORRIS. The Life and Death of Jason. THE FLOWERS TO COME. 99 TIS THE WORLD'S WINTER. 'Trs the world's winter ; Autumn and summer Are gone long ago. Earth is dry to the centre, But spring, a new comer, A spring rich and strange, Shall make the winds blow Round and round, Through and through, Here and there, Till the air And the ground Shall be filled with life anew. ALFRED TENNYSON. Nothing Will Die. THE FLOWERS TO COME. THE drift is in the hollows of the hill, Yet primrose leaves uncurl beneath the hedge ; Frosts pierce the down, and the north wind blows chill, Yet snowdrop spikelets rim the garden edge. Dear plants that will make bud in coming spring, Ye were not for one only blossoming : More than one blossoming for all fair flowers ; And God keeps mine till spring is somewhere ours. MRS. AUGUSTA [DAVIES] WEBSTER. 100 ONE SWALLOW. ONE SWALLOW. WE are very glad to-day and lift our praises, For, with eyes that looked out anxiously, While the cutting wind blew sharp against our faces, This one swallow did we see. O thou blessed swallow, matter not thou reach us Travel-faint and tired, with draggled plumage wet ; Through the winter-awe thou comest now to teach us Of a spring we know not yet. Yes, to-day has set us free from that oppressive Going softly we had kept so very long, And we loose the strain of newborn joy excessive In a rain of tears and song. But " One Swallow does not make a Summer" say ye, " Earth in dreary twilight lieth veiled as yet ; Many a weary wind must blow its blast ere may ye Seek the nascent violet." Would ye quench with that drear adage joy that quickens In a triumph through our whole lives once again ; Till the spirit, shorn of comfort, quails and sickens For your biting frost and rain ? Nay, ye cannot take our holy joyance from us ; Nay, ye cannot make the anointed eyesight dim THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. IOI Of the trustful eyes that waited God's good promise Which they had received of him. Ye have only seen to-day one swallow flying From the sunny southern land where Summer is ; But we know they come in flights with that undying Summer greater far than this. O the beauty and the joy that passeth telling ! O the time of singing birds that soon shall come, When the trees put forth their leaves of fairest smelling, And the brooks no more are dumb. O we take the blessed guerdon none receiveth Save whose soul 'gainst doubting's bitter breath can prove That sweet grace which all things hopeth and beliv- eth, Not credulity, but love. EMILY HENRIETTA HICKEY. THE RETURN OF THE BIRDS. I HEAR from many a little throat, A warble interrupted long ; I hear the robin's flute-like note, The bluebird's slenderer song. 1 02 SWO WDROrS CONSOLA TION. Brown meadows and the russet hill, Not yet the haunt of grazing herds, And thickets by the glimmering rill, Are all alive with birds. O choir of spring, why come so soon ? On leafless grove and herbless lawn Warm lie the yellow beams of noon ; Yet winter is not gone. For frost shall sheet the pools again ; Again the blustering East shall blow, Whirl a white tempest through the glen, And load the pines with snow. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. SNOWDROPS CONSOLA TION. A SMALL bird twitters on a leafless spray, Across the snow-waste breaks a gleam of gold : What token can I give my friend to-day But February blossoms, pure and cold ? Frail gifts from Nature's half-reluctant hand, What if he deems them meaningless and pale ? I see the signs of spring about the land, I hear in dreams the cuckoo's summer tale ; And these chill snowdrops, fresh from wintry bowers, Are the forerunners of a world of flowers. SARAH DOUDNEY. ROBBER BLUE BACK. 1 03 ROBBER BLUEBACK. THOUGH it lacks two months of May Frosts have nipped a genial thaw And the melted snow is thin Crisp and harsh to Renard's claw. White are curves where paths have been Winding through the ruddy swamp, Pensive-gray the circling trees Etch the sky in gentle pomp. Yet is spring within the breeze, Gay in heart of yonder fowl Screaming near a brooding owl His jay jay jay ! Wicked dandy, have you come Dressed in suit of brightest blue Long among our hills to roam Till the woods your presence rue ? Malice sure your notes betray While you flirt about each gray Brushy top and chestnut crest Jotting down in thievish brain Just the lay of every nest ; So when summer's here again Suck the eggs away you fly With the parent-frighting cry Of jay jay jay ! Ah the dainty rascal jay ! Now's the time abroad to fling 104 MIDNIGHT. With the heart and limbs of youth Ere the fickle minded spring All the land with lakes endu'th ! Now across the oak-swamp race Following swift his airy trace ; Hound him down the icy path Till he chatters full of wrath ; Chase him past the helpless owl And loudly mock the coward fowl With jay jay jay / CUAKI.KS DE KAY. MIDNIGHT. BENEATH a midnight moon a world of snow Sleeps in a deathly calm. A wistful breeze Searches in vain among the lifeless trees For the soft whisper it was wont to know. The last sere leaf was buried long ago, The last bird far away o'er summer seas. Return, O wind, to the forsaken leas, Nor grieve the branches with thy wailings low ! And where art thou, my River ! at my feet Thou liest breathless, on a shrouded bed. A sculptured current, all thy voices sweet In cold and pulseless slumber quieted. No ? still thy great heart throbs with sluggish beat ? So would my life go on if song were dead ! MRS. FRANCES [LAUGHTON] MACE. UNDER THE SNOWS. ICE. 105 UNDER THE SNOWS. UNDER the drifted snows, with weeping and holy rite, For a little maid's repose let the lonely bed be dight. Cold is the cradle cover our pitiful hands fold over The heart that had won repose or ever it knew de- light. High are the heavens and steep to us who would enter in By the fasts that our faint hearts keep and the thorn-set crowns we win. Sweetly the child awaketh, brightly the day-dawn breaketh On the eyes that fell asleep or ever they looked on sin. KATHARINE LEE BATES. ICE. THE ice that binds the brooklet Is thinner than you think ; The sun shines warm upon it, And sooner than you think, Gurgling, sweet it answers, " Come, dry lips, and drink ! " GEORGE WASHINGTON WRIGHT HOUGHTON. IO6 THE MELTING OF THE SNOW. THE MELTING OF THE SNOW. A SOUND of streamlets flowing, flowing ; A cry of winds so bleakly blowing ; A stir, a tumult ever growing ; Deep night ; and the Great Snow was going. Underneath her death-shroud thick, Like a body buried quick, Heaved the Earth, and thrusting hands Cracked the ice and brake her bands. Heaven, with face of watery woe, Watched the resurrection grow. All the night, bent to be free, In a sickening agony, Struggled Earth. With silent tread From his cold seat at her head Rose the Frost, and northward stole To his cavern near the pole. When the bloodshot eyes of Morn Opened in the east forlorn, 'Twas a dreary sight to see Blotted waste and water)' lea, All the beautiful white plains Blurred with blackening seams and stains, All the sides of every hill Scarred with thaw and dripping chill, All the cold sky scowling black O'er the soaking country track ; There's a sobbing everywhere In the miserable air, THE MELTING OF THE SNOW. IO/ And a thick fog brooding low O'er the black trail of the snow ; While the Earth, amid the gloom Still half buried in her tomb, Swooning lay, and could not rise, With dark film upon her eyes. So the snow had nearly fled, And upon her dying bed Earth was quickening ; damp and chill Streamed the fog on vale and hill. Like a shiny crocodile Weltering on banks o' Nile, Everywhere, with muddy maw, Crawled the miserable Thaw. On the pond and on the stream Loosened lights began to gleam, And before the snow could fleet Drizzly rains began to beat. Here and there upon the plain, 'Mid the pools of thaw and rain, Lingered in the dismal light Patches of unmelted white. As these melted, very slowly, In a quiet melancholy, Vacant gleams o' the clouded blue Through the dismal daylight flew, And the wind, with a shrill clang, Went into the west, and sang. 1 08 EXPECTA TION. A sound of waters ever flowing ; A stir, a tumult, ever growing ; A gleam o' the blue, a west wind blowing ; Warmth, and the last snow wreath was going. ROBERT WILLIAMS BUCHANAN. White Rose and Red. EXPECTA TION. (RONDEAU.) WHEN flower-time comes and all the woods are gay, When linnets chirrup and the soft winds blow, Adown the winding river I will row, And watch the merry maidens tossing hay, And troops of children shouting in their play, And with my thin oars flout the fallen snow Of heavy hawthorn-blossom as I go : And shall I see my love at full of day When flower-time comes ? Ah, yes ! for by the border of the stream She binds red roses to a trim alcove, And I shall fade into her summer-dream Of musing upon love, nay, even seem To be myself the very god of love When flower-time comes ! EDMUND WILLIAM GOSSE. WARM DA Y NEAR THE CLOSE OF WINTER. ICQ ON A WARM DA Y NEAR THE CLOSE OF WINTER. How soft this southern gale ! Its freshness falls Upon my forehead like the light, warm touch Of the dew-lips of springtime. It has been In the far clime of blossoms, and it bears A message of affection to our woods, And vales and streams. Spring, with her rose-air breath, Is coming now upon her rainbow wing, To waken the green earth to life and joy, And the free air to music. She will weave Her violet throne upon a thin, white cloud, Soft floating in the middle-air, and call Upon her thousand votaries to hail Her coming with a song and smile. The waves Will shout from rock and mountain, the blue lakes Will tremble like the plumage of a dove In the new gush of sunlight, and the birds Will breathe their loves in music, and float off, A shower of blossoms, in the atmosphere. The young, gay leaves will weave their twilight hues In grove and forest ; 'mid yon budding isles The sea will sleep like a Circassian bride Decked with her richest jewelry ; the sky Will take a bluer tint, and seem to arch More high and pure and beautiful above, As if to let the spirit go abroad In ampler journey ings ; and a deep spell 1 1 EXPECTA TION. Of life and bliss will, like a blessing, rest Upon the waking heart, and bid it float Like a young flower upon the buoyant wave Of beautiful imaginings of Heaven. GEORGE DENNISON PRENTICE. EXPECTATION. WIDE wintry fields left bare to skies unkind, Brown stubble, yellow stream and thin gray grass, Soiled streaks of snow on yonder hillside pass, A landscape colorless, a wet chill wind, Clear tinkle of slow-dropping icicles, Full-throated brooks whose querulous brawling swells To noise unwonted, roughened with the thaw. Thick February mists cling heavily To the dead earth and to each leafless tree, And closer down upon the hilltops draw, Dull forecasts there of bright, sure-coming spring ; Yet the heart gathers hope and strange delight From this the dear, unlovely, wished-for sight Of leaden-misted twilights lengthening. Beyond the moist, mirk curtain weighing down, From dark gray heaven unto dark earth brown, Youth sees afar, with close-drawn eyelids, May, Long vistas of all beauty, golden dells, And clouds wherein the very sunshine dwells ; And that rich promise shortens the short day. EMMA LAZARUS. AFTER THE WINTER RAIN. Ill THE WINTER RAIN. THE rain comes down, it comes without our call, Each pattering drop knows well its destined place, And soon the fields whereon the blessings fall Shall change their frosty look for Spring's sweet face ; So fall the words thy Holy Spirit sends, Upon the heart where Winter's robe is flung ; They shall go forth as certain of their ends, As the wet drops from out thy vapors wrung : Spring will not tarry, though more late its rose Shall bud and bloom upon the sinful heart ; Yet when it buds, forever there it blows, And hears no Winter bid its bloom depart ; It strengthens with his storms, and grows more bright When o'er the earth is cast his mantle white. JONES VERY. AFTER THE WINTER RAIN. AFTER the winter rain, Sing, robin ! sing, swallow ! Grasses are in the lane, Buds and flowers will follow. Woods shall ring, blithe and gay, With bird- trill and twitter, 112 WAITING. Though the skies weep to-day And the winds are bitter. Though deep call unto deep As calls the thunder, And white the billows leap The tempest under ; Softly the waves shall come Up the long, bright beaches, With dainty flowers of foam And tenderest speeches. After the wintry pain, And the long, long sorrow, Sing, heart ! for thee again Joy comes with the morrow. INA DONNA COOLBRITH. WAITING. THE sunbeams slant along the snow; It is a day of days : O magic of those lands below, How long the spring delays ! Hast thou detained her on the shore Where bloom Love's lilies ever more ? JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. THE LAST SNOW OF WINTER. 113 THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET. THE poetry of earth is never dead : When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead. That is the grasshopper's he takes the lead In summer luxury he has never done With his delights, for when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never : On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half-lost, The grasshopper's among some grassy hills. JOHN KEATS. THE LAST SNOW OF WINTER. SOFT snow still rests within this wayside cleft, Veiling the primrose buds not yet unfurled ; Last trace of dreary winter, idly left On beds of moss, and sere leaves crisply curled ; Why does it linger while the violets blow, And sweet things grow ? A relic of long nights and weary days, When all fair things were hidden from my sight ; 114 FEBRUARY THAW. A chill reminder of those mournful ways I traversed when the fields were cold and white ; My life was dim, my hopes lay still and low Beneath the snow. Now spring is coming, and my buried love Breaks fresh and strong and living through the sod ; The lark sings loudly in the blue above, The budding earth must magnify her God ; Let the old sorrows and old errors go With the last snow. SARAH DOUDNEY. FEBRUARY THAW. THE change has come at last, and from the west Drives on the wind, and gives the clouds no rest, And ruffles up the water thin that lies Over the surface of the thawing ice ; Sunrise and sunset with no glorious show Are seen, as late they were across the snow ; The wet-lipped west wind chilleth to the bone More than the light and flickering east hath done. More soberly the earth's fresh hope begins, Nor stays to think of what each new day wins : And still it seems to bid us turn away From this chill thaw to dream of blossomed May. WILLIAM MORRIS. The Earthly Paradise. FEBRUAR Y. SNO W-BLOOM. 1 1 5 FEBRUARY. THE time when skies are free from cloud, Though still the robin whistles loud In the bare garden croft, The catkin, on the hazel tree, Mistakes for summer flower the bee, And round it hovers oft. Winter's last sigh, from frozen north, Withers the flower that ventures forth ; And there is wanting still The unseen warmth, the mellow note Of the wild bird with dappled coat, Though faster flows the rill. When, from his winter home, the snake Creeps stealthy through the withered brake, And thoughtless of the past, The young leaves open overhead, Though still their fathers, sere and dead, Are hurried by the blast. GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY. SNOW-BLOOM. WHERE does the snow go, So white on the ground ? Under May's azure No flake can be found. Il6 LATE FEBRUARY. Look into the lily Some sweet summer hour ; There blooms the snow In the heart of the flower. Where does the love go, Frozen to grief ? Along the heart's fibres Its cold thrill is brief. The snowfall of sorrow Turns not to dry dust ; It lives in white blossoms Of patience and trust. LUCY LARCOM. LATE FEBRUARY. LATE February days ; and now, at last, Might you have thought that winter's woe was past ; So fair the sky was, and so soft the air. The happy birds were hurrying here and there, As something soon would happen. Reddened now The hedges, and in gardens many a bough Was overbold of buds. Sweet days, indeed, Although past road and bridge, through wood and mead, Swift ran the brown stream, swirling by the grass, And in the hillside hollows snow yet was. WILLIAM MORRIS. The Earthly Paradise. VOID SPRING. LATE WINTER. 1 1/ VOID SPRING. THIS placid day, here at the Winter's end, This day of temperate sunshine and mild air, Filled with high promise of glad things and fair, Is unto me like some dear, chosen friend Loved well by twain whose two lives might not blend Because Death called the worshipped woman where Is no delight in love or love's sweet care, Where neither prayers nor songs nor sighs ascend. If any comfort to the lover's heart Yields the dear friend who holds so much of her At whose light footfall he no more shall start, Such comfort to my soul these hours impart ; I greet of Spring the Spring-like harbinger, Knowing with me Spring's self may not confer. PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. LATE WINTER. ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair ; The bees are stirring ; birds are on the wing : And Winter shuddering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. Il8 O SOFT SPRING AIRS. O SOFT SPRING AIRS. COME up, come up, O soft spring airs, Come from your silver shining seas, Where all day long you toss the wave About the low and palm-plumed keys ! Forsake the spicy lemon groves, The balms and blisses of the south, And blow across the longing land The breath of your delicious mouth. Come from the almond bough you stir, The myrtle thicket where you sigh ; Oh, leave the nightingale, for here The robin whistles far and nigh ! For here the violet in the wood Thrills with the fulness you shall take, And wrapped away from life and love The wildrose dreams, and fain would wake. For here in reed and rush and grass, And tiptoe in the dusk and dew, Each sod of the brown earth aspires To meet the sun, the sun and you. Then come, O fresh spring airs, once more Create the old delightful things, And woo the frozen world again With hints of heaven upon your wings. MRS. HARRIET ELIZABETH [PRESCOTT] SPOFFORD. FAREWELL AND HAIL, 119 FAREWELL AND HAIL. FAREWELL to ceaseless snowing And winter garbed in gray ! Too long his chains have bound us, We'll fling them from around us And gleeful hail his going With ringing roundelay : Farewell to ceaseless snowing And winter garbed in gray ! Away with pallid pining And sorrowing that's vain ! Soon skies will smile above us And tender lilies love us, And warmer suns be shining Upon the amber grain : Away with pallid pining And sorrowing that's vain ! We'll dream that pain is over And grief that wastes and wears ; We'll roam the fields with Dian, Or hunt with bold Orion, Or play the reckless rover Where quivered Cupid fares : We'll dream that pain is over And grief that wastes and wears ! We'll lie amid the rushes And tune a pipe with Pan ; 120 V ENVOI. We'll sport with fays and fairies, Whose green-embowered lair is Where thicket-loving thrushes Make melody for man : We'll lie amid the rushes And tune a pipe with Pan ! CLINTON SCOLLARD. VENVOI. As some dear friend to other climes departing, Holding the hands of one he loveth well, Looks in his eyes while silent tears are starting, And without words they breathe a mute farewell, So ere the Spring across the mountains flying Wakes the gray earth from silence and repose, Let us draw near the hoary monarch dying, And bid good-bye to Winter ere he goes. Think when he came, his royal robes around him, Grand in his strength and glorious in his might, Minstrel and bard with song and welcome crowned him, And shall he go without a word to-night ? Then was he strange, no single grief or pleasure Bound to our lives his presence like a spell ; Now, when he holds our memory's dearest treasure, Shall we forget to bless and say farewell ? V ENVOI. 121 Nay ! for though fast the Future's ties may bind us, Fair with the light her witcheries may cast, She cannot hide the tender gloom behind us, She cannot hush the whispers of the Past. Yet as we bend to pluck the opening flowers, We'll think of one, though faded, all more dear, And while we touch glad chords in joyous hours, Some broken echo sweeter still we hear. For in life's paths of honor and of duty Each day fulfills the promise last, He best may hope to win the Future's beauty, Who best has kept the treasures of the Past. So ere the Spring across the mountains flying Wakes the grim earth from silence and repose, Let us draw near the hoary monarch dying, And say farewell to Winter ere he goes. MRS. MARY ELIZABETH [MCGRATH] BLAKE. INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PACK A bitter day that early sank 12 After the winter rain 1 1 1 All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair . .117 And then the snows came, and the squirrel slept . 5 Around, above the world of snow 8 A small bird twitters on a leafless spray . . . 102 As one who ere his manly frame be knit .... 6 A sound of streamlets flowing, flowing . . . 106 As rail tracks shorten in the cold . . . .56 As some dear friend to other climes departing . . 120 Awake, awake, O gracious heart 4/3 A widow bird sate mourning for her love . . . 13 A winter day 1 the feather-silent snow . . . .11 Bare and sunshiny, bright and bleak . . . . 14 Beneath a midnight moon a world of snow . . .104 Blue starry skies; hills dreaming in their snows . . 10 Came cold February, sitting . . . . .16 Come up, come up, O soft spring airs . . . . 118 Darkness succeeds to twilight 48 Dead streams beneath the icy silent blocks ... 88 Die down, O dismal day ! and let me live ... 90 Dip down upon the northern shore .... 78 Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak . 83 1 24 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PACK Each shining snowflake lets a shadow fall ... 37 Every valley drinks 89 Fair Maid of February! drop of snow. ... 36 Farewell to ceaseless snowing . . . . . 119 February, a form 4 For me there is no rarer thing ..... xxvi For me these apple-blossoms bloom 97 From the sad eaves the drip-drop of the rain . . 66 Gold-eyed as the shore-flower shelterless . . . .15 Harper old, a love-song glad ..... 35 Hear the sledges with their bells . . . . .69 Hence, rude Winter ! crabbed old fellow ... 5 How calm, how solemn, how sublime the scene . . 65 How pale and weak becomes the lamp of day . . * 7 How soft this southern gale ! Its freshness falls . . 109 I am lustration ; and the sea is mine .... 2 I chased the maid with rapid feet 18 I hear from many a little throat 101 I know him, February's thrush 40 I look from my lonely window 29 In bare, gnarled arms the gaunt trees take ... 82 In beauty perfected, with lavish grace .... 13 In the late winter, when the breath of spring . . -75 In the rosy light trills the gay swallow .... 79 I saw a cloud at set of sun 16 I send a sign of love ; the shower sends ... 46 I send thee pansies while the year is young 59 I stand where in the summer I have stood ... 70 I thought the world was cold in death 39 It was a winter such as when birds die ... 55 I went to look for roses ... . . 18 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 12$ PAGE Late February days ; and now, at last . . . . 116 Late lies the wintry sun a-bed ...... 57 Like mimic meteors the snow 47 Like some immortal heathen thing ..... 3 Little inmate, full of mirth 73 Lone Flower, hemmed in with snows, and white as they. 74 My Effie, if I take you so 69 Noon, and the north-west sweeps the empty road . 20 No summer sunset afterglow ..... 19 O'er the wide waste of bajrren, bloomless moors . . 17 O full of Faith 1 The Earth is rock, the Heaven . 75 Oh ! I wish I were a tiny browny bird from out the earth 50 O lonely day ! No sounds are heard .... 67 O melancholy bird, a winter's day .... 64 O my roses, lying underneath the snow .... 7 On the wind in February 65 O tender time that love thinks long to see ... 84 Over thy marble shines this moon .... 91 O weary winds ! O winds that wail 9 O winter ! thou art not that haggard Lear ... 4 O winter ! wilt thou never, never go 33 O winter winds, your mournful roar . . . . 21 Rain hail sleet snow But in my East . . . 68 Shall I desire 30 Sleep, baby mine. The failing light is low ... 26 Slowly, with shaking staff and snowy stole . . Title-page Snow o'er the darkening moorlands . .... 28 Soft snow still rests within this wayside cleft . . 113 Stand here by my side and turn, I pray .... 24 Still lie the sheltering snows, undimmed and white . 88 1 26 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PAGE Summer is a glorious season 22 Sweet flower ! that peeping from thy russet stem . 2 The air is white with snowflakes clinging ... 27 The birds have been singing to-day .... 87 The change has come at last, and from the west . .114 The clouds are gathering slowly ; dark and vast . . 77 The cold winds rave on the icy river .... 68 The day is ending ........ 71 The day, the only day returns ...... 44 The drift is in the hollows of the hills .... 99 The earth is wrapped in one white dream of snow . . 31 The first flower of the infant year .... 94 The frost increased, and the thin snow .... 98 The golden sunshine has fled away .... 72 The ice that binds the brooklet 105 The logs burn red ; she \ if ts her head .... 58 The mailed sleet is driving 34 The morning skies are dull and streaked with gray . 94 The night was winter in its roughest mood ... 30 The pale sun, through the spectral wood ... 37 This placid day, here at the Winter's end . . . 117 The poetry of earth is never dead . . . . 113 The rain comes down, it comes without our call . . 1 1 1 The soft wind from the south land sped ... 49 The snow lies white, and the moon gives light . . 53 The sunbeams slant along the snow . . . . 112 The time has been that these wild solitudes ... 60 The time when skies are free from cloud . . . 115 The Winter's a book of poems ..... 70 Though it lacks two months of May . . . . 103 Thy cold, unmoved face, severely fair .... 96 'Tis the world's winter 99 Under the drifted snows, with weeping and holy rite . 105 Under the snowdrift the blossoms are sleeping . . 91 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. I2/ PAGB Wan, wind-wracked month, of all the months most bare, 56 We are very glad to-day and lift our praises . . 100 When flower-time comes and all the woods are gay . 108 When Roman fields are red with cyclamen ... 34 When snow began she tried to make . . . . I When the days are longer, longer .... 53 Where does the snow go 115 Where for carpet lay the gaunt brown trees below . 38 Where now the vital energy that moved .... 80 Wide wintry fields left bare to skies unkind . . no Wild wintry wind, storm through the night 95 Winds ! are they winds ? or myriad ghosts, that shriek, 54 Wind of the winter night 51 Without the snow, no snow-birds ..... 29 Your change draws near, O changeless pall of grey . 92 Ye storms, resound the praises of your King ... 38 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. PACK A Bitter Winter 55 A Book of Nature 70 A Flower 36 After the Winter Rain in A Glee for Winter 5 Candlemas 3 Desolate 66 Die down, O Dismal Day 90 Dying Winter Title-page Evanescence 91 Expectation 108, no Farewell and Hail 119 February . . . 2, 4, 6, 8, 16, 20, 39, 56, 68, 88, 115 February, A Day in 12 February, Afternoon in . . . . . . 71 February in Rome 34 February, On the Wind in 65 February Rain 67 February Thaw 114 Foreshadowings 51 I 30 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. PACK Fourteenth of February, Lines Suggested by the . . 48 Gold-Eyed as the Shore-Flower 15 Grasshopper and the Cricket, The 113 Hymn to Bishop Saint Valentine, A .... 44 Ice 105 In February 47, 87 In Winter .... 5 In the Winter no Birds Sing 35 I Went to Look for Roses . . . . . .18 Lake Cayuga in Winter ...... 96 Late February . . . . . . , ^, .116 Late Winter 117 Leafless Hours . . . . . . . . -37 L'Envoi .......... 1 20 Longing for Spring 78 Melting of the Snow, The 106 Midnight 104 One Swallow 100 On Observing a Blossom on the First of February . . 2 On Receiving a Plaque of Apple-Blooms ... 97 On the French Expedition to Russia, 1816 ... 38 O Soft Spring Airs 118 O Winter, wilt thou Never go 33 Pansies 59 Path Through the Snow, The 14 Robber Blueback 103 Safe 95 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 131 PAGE Seasons .' 68 Skating 18 Sledge Bells 58 Sleep, Baby Mine 26 Snow-Birds 29 Snow-Bloom . . . . . . . . .115 Snowdrop, A Legend of the 75 Snowdrop Consolation 102 Snowdrop in the Snow, The 75 Snowdrop, To a 74 Snowdrop, The 94 Snow on the Moors . . . . . . . .17 Snow Shadows 37 Spring in Winter xxvi The Air is White 27 The Bells 69 The Cricket 73 The February Hush 28 The Flowers to Come ....... 99 The Frost Increased 98 The Frozen Cascade 13 The Frozen River 88 The Moth 38 The Return of the Birds 101 The Snow-Bird 79 The Snow Shower 24 The Snowstorm ........ 77, 94 The Snow lies White 53 The Thrush in February 40 The Widow Bird 13 The Winter Wind 83 'Tis the World's Winter . ..... . .99 Under the Snowdrift -91 Under the Snows 105 132 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. PACB Valentine, A 43 Valentine's Day, 1873 50 Valentine in Form of Ballade 49 Valentine Verses 46 Vision of Spring in Winter, A 84 Void Spring 117 Waiting 112 Warm Day near the Close of Winter, On a . . 109 Weather, On the Choice of 30 What May Be 53 When Springtide Comes ...... 92 Where now the Vital Energy 80 Winter . 4, 7, 72 Winter Afternoon, A 70 Winter : An Elegy 29 Winter Day, A II Winter Evening, A 7 Winter Hymn, A ........ 9 Winter, The Last Snow of 113 Winter Night, A 65 Winter, Night-Winds in 54 Winter Piece, A 60 Winter Rain 89 Winter Rain, The in Winter Roundelay, A 34 Winter Scene, A 31 Winter Scene in New Hampshire, A .... 10 Winter Sleep, The I Winter Storm, In a 69 Winter Sunset 16 Winter, Sunny Days in 22 Winter Thought, A ........ 82 Winter Time 57 Winter, To a Bird in 64 Winter Twilight *9 INDEX OF SUBJECTS. 133 PACK Winter Walk at Noon, The ...... 3 Winter Winds ........ 2I Zero in the Sun A 000032064