Come, if the love thou hast for me
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee,-
Fresh as the fountain under-ground,
When first 't is by the lapwing found.
But if for me thou dost forsake
Some other maid, and rudely break
Her worshipp'd image from its base,
To give to me the ruin'd place;-
Then, fare thee well,-I'd rather make
My bower upon some icy lake,
When thawing suns begin to shine,
Than trust to love so false as thine.
THE Snow! the snow!-'t is a pleasant thing
To watch it falling, falling
Down upon earth with noiseless wing
As at some spirit's calling;
Each flake is a fairy parachute,
From teeming clouds let down, And earth is still, and air is mute, As frost's enchanted zone.
The snow! the snow!-behold the trees
Their fingery boughs stretch out,
The blossoms of the sky to seize,
As they duck and dive about:
The bare hills plead for a covering,
And, ere the gray twilight,
Around their shoulders broad shall cling
An arctic cloak of white.
The snow! the snow!-alas! to me
It speaks of far-off days,
When a boyish skater, mingling free
Amid the merry maze:
Methinks I see the broad ice still;
And my nerves all jangling feel,
Blending with tones of voices shrill
The ring of the slider's heel.
The snow! the snow!-soon dusky night
Drew his murky curtains round
Low earth, while a star of lustre bright
Peep'd from the blue profound.
Yet what cared we for dark'ning lea,
Or warning bell remote?
With shout and cry we scudded by,
And found the bliss we sought.
The snow! the snow!-'twas ours to wage,
How oft, a mimic war,
Each white ball tossing in wild rage,
That left a gorgeous scar:
While doublets dark were powder'd o'er,
Till darkness none could find,
And valorous chiefs had wounds before,
And caitiff chiefs behind.
The snow! the snow!-I see him yet,
That piled-up giant grim,
To startle horse and traveller set,
With Titan girth of limb.
We hoped, oh, ice-ribb'd Winter bright!
Thy sceptre could have screen'd him;
But traitor Thaw stole forth by night,
And cruelly guillotined him!
The snow! the snow!-Lo! Eve reveals
Her starr'd map to the moon,
And o'er hush'd earth a radiance steals
More bland than that of noon:
The fur-robed genii of the Pole
Dance o'er our mountains white,
Chain up the billows as they roll,
And pearl the caves with light,
The snow! the snow!-It brings to mind
A thousand happy things,
And but one sad one-'tis to find
Too sure that Time hath wings!
Oh! ever sweet is sight or sound
That tells of long ago;
And I gaze around, with thoughts profound,
Upon the falling snow.
THE WINTER EVENING.
HARK! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge,
That with its wearisome but needful length
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright;-
He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
With spatter'd boots, strapped waist, and frozen locks;
News from all nations lumb'ring at his back:
True to his charge, the close-pack'd load behind,
Yet careless what he brings; his one concern,
Is to conduct him to the destined inn;
And, having dropp'd the expected bag, pass on.
He whistles as he goes, light-hearted wretch,
Cold and yet cheerful, messenger of grief
Perhaps to thousands, and of joy to some;
To him indifferent whether grief or joy.
Houses in ashes, and the fall of stocks;
Births, deaths, and marriages; epistles wet
With tears, that trickled down the writer's cheeks,
Fast as the periods from his fluent quill;
Or charged with amorous sighs of absent swains,
Or nymphs responsive; equally affect
His horse and him, unconscious of them all.
But oh! the important budget! usher'd in
With such heart-shaking music; who can say
What are its tidings? Have our troops awak'd?
Or do they still, as if with opium drugg'd,
Snore to the murmurs of the Atlantic wave?
Is India free? and does she wear her plumed
And jewell'd turban with a smile of peace,
Or do we grind her still? The grand debate,
The popular harangue, the tart reply,
The logic, and the wisdom, and the wit,
And the loud laugh-I long to know them all;
I burn to set the imprison'd wranglers free,
And give them voice and utterance once again.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
and while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups,
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
Not such is evening, who with shining face
Sweats in the crowded theatre, and squeezed
And bored with elbow-points through both his sides,
Out-scolds the ranting actor on the stage:
Nor his, who patient stands till his feet throb,
And his head thumps, to feed upon the breath
Of patriots, bursting with heroic rage;
Or placemen, all tranquillity and smiles.
This folio of four pages, happy work!
Which not e'en critics criticise; that holds
Inquisitive attention, while I read,
Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break :-
What is it but a map of busy life,
Its fluctuations, and its vast concerns?
Here runs the mountainous and craggy ridge
That tempts ambition. On the summit see
The seals of office glitter in his eyes;
He climbs, he pants, he grasps them! At his heels,
Close at his heels, a demagogue ascends,
And with a dextrous jerk soon twists him down,
And wins them but to lose them in his turn.
Here rills of oily eloquence in soft
Meanders lubricate the course they take;
The modest speaker is ashamed and grieved
To engross a moment's notice, and yet begs,
Begs a propitious ear for his poor thoughts,
However trivial all that he conceives.
Sweet bashfulness! it claims, at least, this praise,
The dearth of information and good sense
That it foretells us, always comes to pass.
Cataracts of declamation thunder here;
There forests of no meaning spread the page,
In which all comprehension wanders lost;
While fields of pleasantry amuse us there
With merry descants on a nation's woes.
The rest appears a wilderness of strange
But gay confusion; roses for the cheeks,
And lilies for the brows of faded age;
Teeth for the toothless, ringlets for the bald;
Heaven, earth, and ocean plunder'd of their sweets;
Nectareous essences, Olympian dews,
Sermons, and city feasts, and favourite airs:
Ethereal journeys, submarine exploits,
And Katterfelto with his hair on end
At his own wonders-wond'ring for his bread.
"Tis pleasant through the loopholes of retreat
To peep at such a world; to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates
At a safe distance, where the dying sound
Falls a soft murmur on the uninjured ear.
Thus sitting, and surveying thus at ease
The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced
To some secure and more than mortal height,
That liberates and exempts me from them all.
It turns, submitted to my view; turns round,
With all its generations: I behold
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