Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Then comes, with an awful roar, The storm-wind! Howl! howl! and from the forest And be swept away! For there shall come a mightier blast, And the stars, from heaven down-cast, Kyrie, eleyson! Christe, eleyson! EARLIER POEMS. [These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches, on a similar occasion; "I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."] Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, "T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; The softly-warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings Glance quick in the bright sun, The forest openings. Longfellow. 1. that moves along 2 When the bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws And, when the eve is born, In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far, Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, Inverted in the tide, Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, And the fair trees look over, side by side, And see themselves below. many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, AUTUMN. WITH What a glory comes and goes the year! The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, That on wild cherry and red cedar feeds, A winter bird, comes with its plaintive whistle, O what a glory doth this world put on For him who, with a fervent heart, goes forth Under the bright and glorious sky, and looks On duties well performed, and days well spent! For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death Has lifted up for all, that he shall go To his long resting-place without a tear. WOODS IN WINTER. 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, Where, twisted round the barren oak, Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay, Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear I hear it in the opening year, I listen, and it cheers me long. HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, AT THE CONSECRATION OF PULASKI'S BANNER. WHEN the dying flame of day And the nun's sweet hymn was heard the while, |