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DIRGE FOR THE YEAR.

153

DIRGE FOR THE YEAR.

"ORPHAN Hours, the Year is dead!
Come and sigh, come and weep!"—
"Merry Hours, smile instead,

For the Year is but asleep;
See, it smiles as it is sleeping,
Mocking your untimely weeping."-

"As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,

So white Winter, that rough nurse,
Rocks the dead-cold Year to-day;
Solemn Hours! wail aloud

For your Mother in her shroud.”—

"As the wild air stirs and sways
The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude Days
Rocks the Year. Be calm and mild,
Trembling Hours; she will arise
With new love within her eyes.

"January grey is here,

Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier;

March with grief doth howl and rave; And April weeps:-but O ye Hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers."

P. B. Shelley.

154

THE RAINY DAY.

THE RAINY DAY.

THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
H. W. Longfellow.

AFTER RAIN.

155

AFTER RAIN.

THE cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,

The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest

Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,

Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated

The Snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;

The Plough-boy is whooping-anon-anon:
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

W. Wordsworth.

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AGAIN rejoicing nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in morning dews.

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the violets spring;

In vain to me, in glen or shaw,

The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks;
But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorlands whistles shrill;
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step,

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

THE PRIDE OF YOUTH.

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!

And maun I still on Menie doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk, And it winna let a body be!

R. Burns.

THE PRIDE OF YOUTH.

PROUD Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;

Sweet Robin sits on the bush

Singing so rarely.

"Tell me, thou bonny bird,
When shall I marry me?"
"When six braw gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry ye."

"Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?"

-"The gray-headed sexton

That delves the grave duly.

"The glowworm o'er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady;
The owl from the steeple sing
Welcome, proud lady."

Sir W. Scott.

157

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