WINTER now has ebbed its lowest, furthest from all golden prime;

Nature motionless lies stranded on the banks and shoals of Time.

And the forked and broken branches tossing to the raving sky,

Are distressful signals with a lamentation waved on

high.

But far off assurance beacons, clad in raiment of the

Bow

That from the region of the rain-cloud smiles upon the earth below:

Assurance, tarrying for the day-spring without fever

or amaze;

Like the Sphinx Egyptian, calm in indefatigable gaze; Though in solstitial feebleness the sun along the ecliptic steals,

She shall mark the acceleration of his burning chariot

wheels;

She shall sit beneath her vine-tree when the purple harvest reels.

As the wind, that bloweth where it listeth, stirs the

stagnant ocean,

So the afflux of the seasons vibrates with a gathering

motion.

Sense refined for things eternal hears the low yet awful sound

Of a voice that chides the pausing of the emblematic

round.

Days on days, as waves on waves, shall follow, till elate we see

Nature on the tide of summer floating in her bravery.

But the summer's perfumed breeze with chartered wantonness is fraught:

Now with Winter harmonizes staid sobriety of thought. Thought, the furthest from despondence that would think to read aright

The symbol of man's fortunes in this brief and melancholy light,

That THE SHORTEST DAY forecloses; thought, that sets at nought the praise,

The wealth, the power, the fame, the credit, to be gleaned in golden days,

Cleaving to the independent inward riches of a soul, Vested with the garb of honour won by genuine self

controul.

'TIS

THE OLD YEAR.

IS midnight, yet the clear church bells
In measured strains are pealing:

I hear their chime as it gently swells,

O'er hill and valley stealing.

And now 'tis hushed, and now once more
Sound-laden blasts with a gathering roar
The ravished ear with music fill-
Sweep by and leave the sense behind-
And sinking with the sinking wind,
Pause-fade-and all is still.

The old year is dead!—the best of years!

He lies upon his bier!

Your tones, ye pensive monitors,

Yet linger in mine ear.

From high to low your voices range,

With moody elements of change;

And ye tell in the close of your dying fall

Of hopes and enterprises fair,

Like vacant sounds dispersed in air :

For the world lies under a pall:

And many there are who never more
Your melody shall hear;

Nor see the lengthening days restore

A beauteous blithe new year.

And I heard in your peal a deep-toned bell That to-morrow may sullenly swing my knell, And bid my comrades cease their mirth, And loosen the knots of their festival bowers, And scatter the sweet exotic flowers

Over the new-raised earth.

Yet let the crowd of winged years
Pass on, away, away!

The still small voice within declares
How vain were their delay;
And harmonising to the breast
Foretells the promised place of rest,
With recompense for worldly woe;
Where cold decay shall never come,
But new-born spring for ever bloom,
And years eternal flow.

WH

SKATING.

HEN to his feet the Skater binds his wings,
As of Jove's messenger the poet sings,
He, like the hare, outstrips the northern wind,
And casts, in doubling, a keen glance behind.
By art that to the frozen lake conveys
A glowing interest in winter days,
Before the gazer now he seems to fly;

Now with a backward stroke deludes the eye;
Precipitating curves on curves anew,
Returning ever, to his centre true.

With air of noble ease, and swan-like grace,

He balances awhile in narrow space;

Then sweeps far round with power not shown before,

And on his crystal plain does all but soar.

Yet is his pastime brief; the solar heat

Grows strong; again the lapsing waters meet,

And to dull plodding earth confine his daring feet.