A SNOW-STORM. V. The wind goes down, and the storm is o'er: The old trees writhe and bend no more The silent moon, with her peaceful light, And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, The blasted pine and the ghostly stump, But cold and dead, by the hidden log, In the wide snow-desert, far and grand, With his cap on his head, and the reins in his hand, The dog with his nose on his master's feet, And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, Where she lay when she floundered down. CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN. THE OLD MAID. WHY sits she thus in solitude? Her heart As if to let its heavy throbbings through. Deeper than that her careless girlhood wore; And her cheek crimsons with the hue that tells The rich fair fruit is ripened to the core. It is her thirtieth birthday! With a sigh Her soul hath turned from youth's luxuriant bowers, And her heart taken up the last sweet tie That measured out its links of golden hours. She feels her inmost soul within her stir, With thoughts too wild and passionate to speak ; Yet her full heart, its own interpreter, Translates itself in silence on her cheek. Joy's opening buds, affection's glowing flowers, O, life was beautiful in those lost hours! And yet she does not wish to wander back. THE OLD MAID. No! she but loves in loneliness to think On pleasures past, though never more to be; Hope links her to the future - but the link That binds her to the past is Memory. From her lone path she never turns aside, She seems to soar and beam above them all. Not that her heart is cold-emotions new, And fresh as flowers, are with her heartstrings knit, And sweetly mournful pleasures wander through Her virgin soul, and softly ruffle it. For she hath lived with heart and soul alive Yet life is not to her what it hath been: Her soul hath learned to look beyond its gloss ; And now she hovers, like a star, between Her deeds of love, her Saviour on the cross. Beneath the cares of earth she does not bow, EPITAPH ON EROTION. Yet sometimes o'er her trembling heartstrings thrill AMELIA BALL Welby. EPITAPH ON EROTION. UNDERNEATH this greedy stone Whom the Fates, with hearts as cold, Nipped away at six years old. Thou, whoever thou may'st be, That hast this small field after me, Let the yearly rites be paid So shall no disease or jar Hurt thy house, or chill thy lar; The only melancholy stone. MARTIAL. (Latin.) Translation of LEIGH HUNT. BABY MAY. CHEEKS as soft as July peaches; At all things the heavens under; Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings That have more of love than lovings; Mischiefs done with such a winning Archness that we prize such sinning; Breakings dire of plates and glasses, Graspings small at all that passes, |