Till the bait is gone from the crafty line, He blurs the print of the scholar's book, In the darkest night, and the bright daylight, In every home of human thought, ROARING BROOK. (A PASSAGE OF SCENERY IN CONNECTICUT.) It was a mountain stream that with the leap A channel in the rock, and wash'd away In spring-time, when the snows were coming down, And in the flooding of the Autumn rains, Here when an idle student have I come, Seem'd like the din of some gay tournament. Pleasant have been such hours, and tho' the wise Have said that I was indolent, and they Who taught me have reprov'd me that I play'd The truant in the leafy month of June, I deem it true philosophy in him Whose path is in the rude and busy world, To loiter with these wayside comforters. LINES ON THE NEW YEAR. JANUARY 1, 1825. FLEETLY hath past the year. The seasons came Duly as they are wont-the gentle Spring, When the cool wind came freshly from the hills; And when the tinting of the Autumn leaves “God hath been good to us!" "Tis He whose hand Moulded the sunny hills, and hollowed out The shelter of the valleys, and doth keep And it is He who leadeth up the sun And tempereth the keenness of the frost— Have praises for the well completed year. |