A SNOW-STORM. And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain, For help in his master's need; For a while he strives, with a wistful cry, To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, And whines when he takes no heed. A SNOW-STORM. V. The wind goes down, and the storm is o'er: The old trees writhe and bend no more 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 ; 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. 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 And then she dreams of love, and strives to fill Without a mate for the pure lonely heart AMELIA BALL WELBY. EPITAPH ON EROTION. UNDERNEATH this greedy stone Lies little sweet Erotion, 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 To her little slender shade: So shall no disease or jar Hurt thy house, or chill thy lar; MARTIAL. (Latin.) Translation of LEIGH HUNT. |