WINTER'S FROST.

AN icy gale, oft shifting o'er the pool,
Breathes a blue film, and in its mid career
Arrests the bickering storm.

Loud rings the frozen earth, and hard reflects
A double noise; while, at his evening watch,
The village dog deters the nightly thief;
The heifer lows; the distant waterfall

Swells in the breeze; and with the hasty tread
Of traveller, the hollow-sounding plain
Shakes from afar

It freezes on,

Till Morn, late rising o'er the drooping world,
Lifts her pale eye, unjoyous. Then appears
The various labor of the silent Night:

Prone from the dripping eave, and dumb cascade,
Whose idle torrents only seem to roar;

The pendent icicle, the frost-work fair,
Where transient hues and fancied figures rise;
Wide-spouted o'er the hill, the frozen brook,
A livid tract, cold gleaming on the morn.

THOMSON.

THE SNOW-CLOGGED WAIN.

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WINTER TRIUMPHANT.

THE dead leaves strew the forest-walk,
And withered are the pale wild flowers;
The frost hangs blackening on the stalk,
The dew-drops fall in frozen showers,

Gone are the Spring's green sprouting bowers, Gone Summer's rich and mantling vines,

And Autumn with her yellow hours

On hill and plain no longer shines.

BRAINARD.

THE SNOW-CLOGGED WAIN.

ILL fares the traveller now, and he that stalks
In ponderous boots beside his reeking team.
The wain goes heavily, impeded sore

By congregated loads adhering close

To the clogged wheels; and in its sluggish pace
Noiseless appears a moving hill of snow.

The toiling steeds expand the nostril wide,
While every breath, by respiration strong
Forced downward, is consolidated soon

Upon their jutting chests. He, formed to bear

The pelting brunt of the tempestuous night,

With half-shut eyes and puckered cheeks, and teeth Presented bare against the storm, plods on.

One hand secures his hat, save when with both

He brandishes his pliant length of whip,

Resounding oft, and never heard in vain.

COWPER.

WINTER.

WHEN icicles hang by the wall,

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,

And milk comes frozen home in pail.
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,

Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-whit, tu-whoo, a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw;

WINTER SERENADE.

Then roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,

And nightly sings the staring owl,

Tu-whit, to-whoo, a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

SHAKSPEARE.

WINTER SERENADE.

THE minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,

The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze
Had sunk to rest with folded wings;
Keen was the air, but could not freeze,
Nor check the music of the strings;

So stout and hardy were the band

That scraped the chords with strenuous hand.

And who but listened?-till was paid

Respect to every inmate's claim;

127

The greeting given, the music played
In honor of each household name,

Duly pronounced with lusty call,

And Merry Christmas" wished to all!

THE END.

WORDSWORTH.

MEARS & DUSENBERY, STEREOTYPERS.

C. SHERMAN & SON, PRINTERS.