LINES ON THE NEW YEAR. JANUARY 1, 1826. WINTER is come again. The sweet south-west By the frost fetter. There is not a sound, And the clear icicle hangs cold and still, And Autumn rustleth its decaying robe 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 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 still reckoning with thyself. The year 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 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, Of the damp grave has fallen! Who, so lov'd, And on its bright brief journey, gather'd up While you are gazing on it, or a dream In its most ravishing sweetness rudely broken. |