While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae:
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," The joyless winter-day,

Let others fear, to me more dear

Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,

My griefs it seems to join;

The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme.

These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,

Because they are Thy will!

Then all I want, (Oh! do Thou grant

This one request of mine!)

Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,

Assist me to resign.

Robert Burns.

THE WRATHFUL WINTER.

THE wrathful winter 'proaching on apace,
With blust'ring blasts had all ybared the treen,
And old Saturnus with his frosty face
With chilling cold had pierced the tender green;
The mantles wrent, wherein enwrapped been
The gladsome groves that now lay overthrown,
The tapets torn, and every bloom down blown.

The soil that erst so seemly was to seen,

Was all despoiled of her beauty's hue:

And soote fresh flowers (wherewith the summer's queen
Had clad the earth) now Boreas' blasts down blew,
And small fowls flocking, in their song did rue
The winter's wrath, wherewith each thing defaced

In woful wise bewailed the summer past.

Hawthorn had lost his motley livery,

The naked twigs were shivering all for cold,

And dropping down the tears abundantly;

Each thing (me thought) with weeping eye me told
The cruel season, bidding me withhold

Myself within, for I was gotten out
Into the fields whereas I walked about.

Thomas Sackville.

THE MOON IS UP, AND YET IT IS NOT

NIGHT.

"The moon is up, and yet it is not night—
Sunset divides the sky with her—a sea
Of glory streams along the Alpine height
Of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free
From clouds, but of all colours seems to be
Melted to one vast Iris of the West,

Where the Day joins the past Eternity;

While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest

Floats through the azure air—an island of the blest!

A single star is at her side, and reigns.

With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains
Rolled o'er the peak of the far Rhætian hill,
As Day and Night contending were, until
Nature reclaim'd her order--gentle flows
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil
The odorous purple of a new-born rose,

Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows,

Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar,

Comes down upon its waters; all its hues

From the rich sunset to the rising star,

Their magical variety diffuse :

And now they change; a paler shadow strews

Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day

Dies like the Dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new colour as it gasps away,

The last still loveliest, till-'tis gone-and all is gray.

*

It is the hush of night, and all between

Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear Precipitously steep; and, drawing near, There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more.

He is an evening reveller, who makes.
His life an infancy, and sings his fill;
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes
Starts into voice a moment, then is still.
There seems a floating whisper on the hill;
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews
All silently their tears of love instil,
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of man and empires, 'tis to be forgiven,

That in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are