« PreviousContinue »
And all day long I number yet,
To thee am owing;
Nor whither going.
Child of the Year! that round dost run
• See, in Chaucer and the elder Poets, the honours formerly paid to this flower.
A Whirl-blast from behind the hill
Along the floor, beneath the shade
HINT FROM THE MOUNTAINS
FOR CERTAIN POLITICAL ASPIRANTS.
Stranger, 'tis a sight of pleasure
With great enterprise;
The stormy skies!
Mark him, how his power he uses,
Clouds and utter glooms!
With uninjured plumes! —
Traveller, 'tis no act of courage
Mid the tempest stern;
Like yon tuft of fern;
Such it is, and not a Haggard
A poor helpless Thing,