Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? From the westward-winding flood, From the evening-lighted wood,

From all things outward you have

won

A tearful grace, as tho' you stood

Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, That dimples your transparent cheek, Encircles all the heart, and feedeth The senses with a still delight

Of dainty sorrow without sound,
Like the tender amber round,
Which the moon about her spread-
eth,

Moving thro' a fleecy night.

II.

You love, remaining peacefully,
To hear the murmur of the strife
But enter not the toil of life.
Your spirit is the calmed sea,

Laid by the tumult of the fight.
You are the evening star, alway
Remaining betwixt dark and bright:
Lull'd echoes of laborious day

Come to you, gleams of mellow light Float by you on the verge of night.

III.

What can it matter, Margaret,
What songs below the waning stars;
The lion-heart, Plantagenet,

Sang looking thro' his prison bars?

Exquisite Margaret, who can tell The last wild thought of Chatelet, Just ere the falling axe did part The burning brain from the true heart,

Even in her sight he loved so well?

IV.

A fairy shield your Genius made
And gave you on your natal day.
Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade,
Keeps real sorrow far away.
You move not in such solitudes,
You are not less divine,
But more human in your moods,
Than your twin-sister, Adeline.
Your hair is darker, and your eyes
Touch'd with a somewhat darker
hue,

And less aërially blue,

But ever trembling thro' the dew Of dainty-woful sympathies.

V.

O sweet pale Margaret,

O rare pale Margaret,

Come down, come down, and hear me speak :

Tie up the ringlets on your cheek:
The sun is just about to set,
The arching limes are tall and shady,
And faint, rainy lights are seen,
Moving in the leavy beech.
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady,
Where all day long you sit between
Joy and woe, and whisper each.

Or only look across the lawn,
Look out below your bower-eaves,

The espaliers and the standards all Are thine; the range of lawn and park :

The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark,

All thine, against the garden wall.
Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring,
Thy sole delight is, sitting still,
With that cold dagger of thy bill,
To fret the summer jenneting.
A golden bill! the silver tonguo,
Cold February loved, is dry:
Plenty corrupts the melody
That made thee famous once, when
young:

And in the sultry garden-squares,

Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse,

I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares. Take warning! he that will not sing

While yon sun prospers in the blue, Shall sing for want, ere leaves are

new, Caught in the frozen palms of Spring.

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.

FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing:

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

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

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

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

And the New-year will take 'em away.
Old year, you must not go;
So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see.
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim,
And tho' his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die;

We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o'er.
To see him die, across the waste
Ilis son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my friend,

And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend,

Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro :
The cricket chirps: the light burns
low:

'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.

Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for you: What is it we can do for you? Speak out before you die. His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend,

And a new face at the door, my friend,

A new face at the door.

TO J. S.

THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows

More softly round the open wold, And gently comes the world to those That are cast in gentle mould. And me this knowledge bolder made, Or else I had not dared to flow In these words toward you, and invade Even with a verse your holy woe. "Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed,

Fall into shadow, soonest lost:

Those we love first are taken first. God gives us love. Something to love Helends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone. This is the curse of time, Alas!

In grief I am not all unlearn'd; Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass;

One went, who never hath return'd. He will not smile-not speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is

seen

Empty before us. That was he

Without whose life I had not been.

Your loss is rarer; for this star

Rose with you thro' a little arc
Of heaven, nor having wander'd far
Shot on the sudden into dark.

I knew your brother: his mute dust
1 honor and his living worth:
A man more pure and bold and just
Was never born into the earth.

I have not look'd upon you nigh,

Since that dear soul hath fall'n
asleep.

Great Nature is more wise than I :
I will not tell you not to weep.
And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew,
Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain,
I will not even preach to you,

"Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain."

Let Grief be her own mistress still.
She loveth her own anguish deep
More than much pleasure. Let her will
Be done-to weep or not to weep.

I will not say, "God's ordinance
Of Death is blown in every wind;
For that is not a common chance
That takes away a noble mind.

His memory long will live alone

In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun,

And dwells in heaven half the night. Vain solace! Memory standing near Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters as I wrote.

I wrote I know not what. In truth, How should I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth? Yet something I did wish to say: For he too was a friend to me:

Both are my friends, and my true breast

Bleedeth for both; yet it may be
That only silence suiteth best.
Words weaker than your grief would
make

Grief more. "Twere better I should cease

Although myself could almost take

The place of him that sleeps in peace. Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace: Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons in

crease.

And the great ages onward roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet;

Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.

You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas?

It is the land that freemen till,

That sober-suited Freedom chose,
The land, where girt with friends or
foes

A man may speak the thing he will;
A land of settled government,

A land of just and old renown,
Where Freedom broadens slowly
down

From precedent to precedent:
Where faction seldom gathers head,
But by degrees to fulness wrought,
The strength of some diffusive
thought
[spread.
IIath time and space to work and
Should banded unions persecute

Opinion, and induce a time

When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute; Tho' Power should make from land to land

The name of Britain trebly greatTho' every channel of the State Should almost choke with golden sand-Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth,

Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky,
And I will see before I die
The palms and temples of the South.

Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
The thunders breaking at her feet:
Above her shook the starry lights:
She heard the torrents meet.

There in her place she did rejoice,

Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind.

Then stept she down thro' town and field

To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men reveal'd
The fullness of her face-
Grave mother of majestic works,

From her isle-altar gazing down, Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, And King-like, wears the crown: Her open eyes desire the truth.

The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears; That her fair form may stand and shine,

Make bright our days and light our
dreams,

Turning to scorn with lips divine
The falsehood of extremes !

LOVE thou thy land, with love farbrought

From out the storied Past, and used Within the Present, but transfused. Thro' future time by power of thought. True love turn'd round on fixed poles, Love, that endures not sordid ends, For English natures, freemen, friends Thy brothers and immortal souls.

But pamper not a hasty time,
Nor feed with crude imaginings
The herd, wild hearts and feeble
wings,

That every sophister can lime.
Deliver not the tasks of might

To weakness, neither hide the ray
From those, not blind, who wait for
day,

Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light.
Make knowledge circle with the winds;
But let her herald, Reverence, fly
Before her to whatever sky
Bear seed of men and growth of minds.
Watch what main-currents draw the
years:

Cut Prejudice against the grain: But gentle words are always gain : Regard the weakness of thy peers: Nor toil for title, place, or touch

Of pension, neither count on praise: It grows to guerdon after-days: Nor deal in watch-words over much: Not clinging to some ancient saw;

Not master'd by some modern term; Not swift nor slow to change, but

firm:

And in its season bring the law;
That from Discussion's lip may fall
With Life, that, working strongly,

binds

Set in all lights by many minds, To close the interests of all.

For Nature also, cold and warm,

And moist and dry, devising long, Thro' many agents making strong, Matures the individual form.

Meet is it changes should control

Our being, lest we rust in ease, We all are changed by still degrees, All but the basis of the soul.

So let the change which comes be free To ingroove itself with that, which flies,

And work, a joint of state, that plies Its office, moved with sympathy. A saying, hard to shape in act ;

For all the past of Time reveals A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact Er'n now we hear with inward strife A motion toiling in the gloomThe Spirit of the years to come Yearning to mix himself with Life A slow-develop'd strength awaits Completion in a painful school Phantoms of other forms of rule, New Majesties of mighty StatesThe warders of the growing hour,

But vague in vapor, hard to mark; And round them sea and air are dark With great contrivances of Power.

Of many changes, aptly join'd,
Is bodied forth the second whole.
Regard gradation, lest the soul
Of Discord race the rising wind;
A wind to puff your idol-fires,

And heap their ashes on the head; To shame the boast so often made, That we are wiser than our sires.

Oh yet, if Nature's evil star

Drive men in manhood, as in youth, To follow flying steps of Truth Across the brazen bridge of war If New and Old, disastrous feud,

Must ever shock, like armed foes, And this be true, till Time shall close,

That Principles are rain'd in blood; Not yet the wise of heart would cease To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt,

But with his hand against the hilt, Would pace the troubled land, like Peace;

Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay, Would serve his kind in deed and word,

Certain, if knowledge bring the sword,

That knowledge takes the sword

away

Would love the gleams of good that broke

From either side, nor veil his eyes: And if some dreadful need should rise

Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke:

To-morrow yet would reap to-day,

As we bear blossoms of the dead; Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed

Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay.

THE GOOSE.

I KNEW an old wife lean and poor,
Her rags scarce held together;
There strode a stranger to the door,
And it was windy weather.

He held a goose upon his arm,

He utter'd rhyme and reason, "Here, take the goose, and keep you

warm,

It is a stormy season."

She caught the white goose by the leg,
A goose-- 'twas no great matter.
The goose let fall a golden egg
With cackle and with clatter,

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf.

And ran to tell her neighbors; And bless'd herself, and cursed herself And rested from her labors.

And feeding high, and living soft,
Grew plump and able-bodied;
Until the grave churchwarden doff'd,
The parson smirk'd and nodded.
So sitting, served by man and maid,
She felt her heart grow prouder:
But ah! the more the white goose laid
It clack'd and cackled louder.
It clutter'd here, it chuckled there;
It stirr'd the old wife's mettle:
She shifted in her elbow-chair,

And hurl'd the pan and kettle. "A quinsy choke thy cursed note !" Then wax'd her anger stronger. "Go, take the goose, and wring her throat,

I will not bear it longer."

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat;

Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer. The goose flew this way and flew that, And till'd the house with clamor. As head and heels upon the floor They flounder'd all together, There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather:

He took the goose upon his arm,

He utter'd words of scorning; "So keep you cold, or keep you warm, It is a stormy morning."

The wild wind rang from park and plain,

And round the attics rumbled, Till all the tables danced again,

And half the chimneys tumbled. The glass blew in, the fire blew out, The blast was hard and harder. Her cap blew off, her gown blew up, And a whirlwind clear'd the larder: And while on all sides breaking loose Her household fled the danger, Quoth she, "The Devil take the goose, And God forget the stranger!"

THE EPIC.

AT Francis Allen's on the Christmaseve,

The game of forfeits done-the girls all kiss'd

Beneath the sacred bush and past away

The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall,

The host, and I sat round the wassailbowl,

Then half-way ebb'd: and there we held a talk,

How all the old honor had from Christmas gone,

Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games

In some old nooks like this; till I, tired out

With cutting eights that day upon the pond,

Where, three times slipping from the outer edge.

I bump'd the ice into three several stars,

Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard The parson taking wide and wider sweeps,

Now harping on the church-commissioners,

Now hawking at Geology and schism; Until I woke, and found him settled down

Upon the general decay of faith

Right thro' the world, "at home was little left,

And none abroad: there was no anchor, none,

To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his hand

On Everard's shoulder, with, "I hold by him."

"And I," quoth Everard, "by the wassail-bowl."

"Why yes," I said, "we knew your gift that way

At college: but another which you had,

I mean of verse (for so we held it then,)

What came of that?" "You know," said Frank, "he burnt

His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books"

And then to me demanding why? "Oh, sir,

He thought that nothing new was said, or else

Something so said 'twas nothingthat a truth

Looks freshest in the fashion of the day:

God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask.

It pleased me well enough." "Nay, nay," said Hall,

"Why take the style of those heroic times?

For nature brings not back the Mastodon,

Nor we those times; and why should any man

Remodel models? these twelve books of mine

Were faint Homeric echoes, nothingworth,

Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt.' "But I,"

Said Francis, "pick'd the eleventh from this hearth,

And have it: keep a thing, its use will

come.

I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes." He laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like a horse

That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears;

For I remember'd Everard's college fame

When we were Freshmen: then at my request