WOODS IN WINTER.

XVII.

When winter winds are piercing chill,

And through the hawthorn blows the gale, With solemn feet I tread the hill,

That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away

Through the long reach of desert woods, The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs

Pour out the river's gradual tide,

Shrilly the skater's iron rings,

And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,

When birds sang out their mellow lay, And winds were soft, and woods were green, And the song ceased not with the day.

But still wild music is abroad,

Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,-

I listen, and it cheers me long.

Longfellow.

XVII.

Into ELEGIACS.

When the blasts sweep the earth with wintry cold, (and) the more frequent breeze steals away the beauty of the shrubbery. Then silent I traverse the hill with solemn foot, where the lonely valley rises in a brow. Not with slow steps, where the raised (points) of the plain stretch, through the dark places of the deserted thicket I rove. Where the sunbeam intertwined would chastely play in the boughs; it bears joy through the close wilderness of the wood. There the vine, around the branches of the knotted oak, united shines beneath the summer sun. And the light winds of summer broke the silence, where the icicle was yet hanging hard with cold. There stand as it were mute urns, the fountains being frozen, from these drop by drop the sluggish streams fall. The iron shoes resound along the covered river; sounds of gladness re-echo through the spinnies. But these beauteous things have passed from my eyes, when the melting voices of birds rang through the grove. The Zephyrs gently blew, and the woods were green; and the simple Muse fell not at fall of day. But artless melody is brought hither by the breeze, which the thickets and close coverts bear; and gathering blasts accord with hoarse murmur, the nodding reeds give and repeat the sounds. Ye keen winds! ye roaring blasts of winter! your murmurs fall stricken on accustomed ears; stricken they fall; when the new year commences its course, it is something delightful, with which my own journey may be cheered.

XVIII.

Venus! thy eternal sway

All the race of man obey;
Heaven's unbending spirits own
Thraldom of thy power alone.
Waving o'er thee as he flies
Painted plumes of thousand dyes,
Love on rapid pinion speeds:
Now he flits o'er flowery meads,
Now where, softly murmuring, flow
Ocean's briny waves below.

When from high, in frenzy wild,
Swoops thy golden-gleaming child,
Beasts that roam the mountain side,
Tenants of the ocean tide,

Man, and every race, that earth
Gently fosters from their birth;
All the burning sun can spy,
Own the Hunter's witchery;
All his Paphian Mother fear;
Empress all thy sway revere!
Translation of Eur. Hipp. 1270—Anstice.

Into ALCAICS.

XVIII.

Relying on boundless power, O Venus! you wield your sceptre eternal in ages; and gods and mortal bands you alone rule with supreme sway. Whom Cupid following upon fans his wings painted with a thousand colours, as hurried in daring flight he traverses the air of heaven. Now he roves

D

among the lovely gardens of the country; now where the gentle whisper of Ocean gliding beneath murmurs among the rocks. Howsoever the gilded boy rushes down upon earth from heaven with the power of madness, the human race, the fishes, the mountain wild beasts confess him Lord. Wheresoever the sun enlightens the habitable regions of the world, all things feel the arts of the Spoiler Son, and the wiles of the Paphian Mother.

XIX.

Where is the sea ?—I languish here-
Where is my own blue sea?
With all its barks of fleet career,
And flags and breezes free!

I miss the voice of waves-the first
That woke my childish glee :

The measured chime-the thundering burst-
Where is my own blue sea?

Oh! rich your myrtles' breath may rise,
Soft, soft, your winds may be:

Yet

my sick heart within me dies; Where is my own blue sea?

I hear the shepherd's mountain flute,
I hear the whispering tree-
The echoes of my soul are mute;
Where is my own blue sea?

Mrs. Hemans.

XIX.

Into ELEGIACS.

O Sea thou art away, I languish in the boundary of midland; O where with thy blue waves Sea art thou away? Hither and thither boats were flitting with rapid course, and free sails were roving in the free south wind. My mind longs for the voices of the waves, of old that sound brought joy to (me) a child. Whether they whispered, or roared like the thunder, O with thy blue waves where Sea art thou away? What that the myrtle groves shed a scented brightness, what that the breeze too falls gently with its breath. Yet dying within fails to (me) torn away. O where with thy blue waves Sea art thou away? From the top of the mountain the pipe of the shepherd resounds, and the tree trembles stricken by the summer winds. Yet to these the echo of my deaf mind answers nothing; O where with thy blue waves Sea art thou away?

my

heart

XX.

Lord of the vale! astounding Flood!
The dullest leaf in this thick wood

Quakes-conscious of thy power;

The caves reply with hollow moan;
And vibrates to its central stone
Yon time-cemented Tower!

And yet how fair the rural scene!
For thou, O Clyde, hast ever been

Beneficent as strong;

Pleased in refreshing dews to steep

The little trembling flowers that peep

Thy shelving rocks among.

Wordsworth.