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LINES ON THE NEW YEAR.

JANUARY 1, 1826.

WINTER is come again. The sweet south-west
Is a forgotten wind, and the strong earth
Has laid aside its mantle to be bound

By the frost fetter. There is not a sound,
Save of the skaiter's heel, and there is laid
An icy finger on the lip of streams,

And the clear icicle hangs cold and still,
And the snow-fall is noiseless as a thought,
Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sends
Many sweet voices with its odors out,

And Autumn rustleth its decaying robe
With a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb!
God made his ministry a silent one,

And he has given him a foot of steel

And an unlovely aspect, and a breath

Sharp to the senses-and we know that He
Tempereth well, and hath a meaning hid

Under the shadow of his hand.

And it shall be interpreted.

Hath a temptation now.

Look up!

Your home

There is no voice

Of waters with beguiling for your ear,
And the cool forest and the meadows green
Witch not your feet away; and in the dells
There are no violets, and upon the hills
There are no sunny places to lie down.
You must go in, and by your cheerful fire
Wait for the offices of love, and hear
Accents of human tenderness, and feast
Your eye upon the beauty of the young.
It is a season for the quiet thought,

And the still reckoning with thyself. The year
Gives back the spirits of its dead, and time
Whispers the history of its vanished hours;

And the heart, calling its affections up,

Counteth its wasted treasure.

Life stands still

And settles like a fountain, and the eye

Sees clearly through its depths, and noteth all That stirred its troubled waters. It is well

That Winter with the dying year should come!

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG GIRL.

'Tis difficult to feel that she is dead.

Her presence, like the shadow of a wing
That is just lessening in the upper sky,
Lingers upon us. We can hear her voice,
And for her step we listen, and the eye
Looks for her wonted coming with a strange,

Forgetful earnestness. We cannot feel

That she will no more come-that from her cheek

The delicate flush has faded, and the light

Dead in her soft dark eye, and on her lip,
That was so exquisitely pure, the dew

Of the damp grave has fallen! Who, so lov'd,
Is left among the living? Who hath walk'd
The world with such a winning loveliness,

And on its bright brief journey, gather'd up
Such treasures of affection? She was lov'd
Only as idols are. She was the pride
Of her familiar sphere-the daily joy
Of all who on her gracefulness might gaze,
And in the light and music of her way,
Have a companion's portion. Who could feel
While looking upon beauty such as hers,
That it would ever perish! It is like
The melting of a star into the sky

While you are gazing on it, or a dream

In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken.

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