SNOW.

Think on the dungeon's grim confine,
Where Guilt and poor Misfortune pine!
Guilt, erring man, relentless view!
But shall thy legal rage pursue
The wretch, already crushèd low

By cruel fortune's undeservèd blow?
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress;
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss!"

I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer
Shook off the pouthery snaw,

And hailed the morning wi' a cheer,
A cottage-rousing craw.

But deep this truth impressed my mind-
Through all His works abroad,

The heart benevolent and kind,

The most resembles God.

A

SNOW.

CHEER for the snow-the drifting snow;

Smoother and purer than Beauty's brow;

The creature of thought scarce likes to tread

On the delicate carpet so richly spread.

With feathery wreaths the forest is bound,

And the hills are with glittering diadems crowned: 'Tis the scene we can have below,

Sing, welcome then, to the drifting snow!

W

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

HILE the bald trees stretch forth their long lank arms,
And starving birds peck nigh the reeky farms;
While houseless cattle paw the yellow field,

Or coughing shiver in the pervious beild,1

And nought more gladsome in the hedge is seen
Than the dark holly's grimly glistening green-
At such a time the ancient year goes by

To join its parents in eternity

At such a time the merry year is born,
Like the bright berry from the naked thorn.

The bells ring out; the hoary steeple rocks—
Hark! the long story of a score of clocks;
For, once a year, the village clocks agree,
E'en clocks unite to sound the hour of glee—
And every cottage has a light awake,
Unusual stars long flicker o'er the lake.
The moon on high, if any moon be there,
May peep, or wink, no mortal now will care,

For 'tis the season when the nights are long,
There's time, ere morn, for each to sing his song.

The year departs, a blessing on his head,-
We mourn not for it, for it is not dead :
Dead! What is that? A word to joy unknown,
Which love abhors, and faith will never own;
A word whose meaning sense could never find,
That has no truth in matter, nor in mind.

1 Beild, shelter.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.

The passing breezes, gone as soon as felt,
The flakes of snow, that in the soft air melt,
The wave, that whitening curls its frothy crest
And falls to sleep upon its mother's breast,

The smile, that sinks into a maiden's eye,—
They come, they go, they change, they do not die.
So the old year-that fond and formal name—
Is with us yet, another and the same.
And are the thoughts that evermore are fleeing,
The moments that make up our being's being,

The silent workings of unconscious love,

Or the dull hate which clings and will not move
In the dark caverns of the gloomy heart,
The fancies, wild and horrible, which start
Like loathsome reptiles from their crankling holes,
From foul, neglected corners of our souls,
Are these less vital than the wave or wind,

Or snow that melts and leaves no trace behind?
Oh! let them perish all, or pass away,

And let our spirits feel a New Year's day.

A New Year's day-'tis but a term of art,

An arbitrary line upon the chart

Of Time's unbounded sea-fond fancy's creature,

To Reason alien, and unknown to Nature—

Nay 'tis a joyful day, a day of hope!
Bound, merry dancer, like an antelope;
And as that lovely creature, far from man,
Gleams through the spicy groves of Hindostan,
Flash through the labyrinth of the mazy dance,
With foot as nimble, and as keen a glance.

And we, whom many New Year's days have told
The sober truth, that we are growing old—
For this one night-aye, and for many more,
Will be as jocund as we were of yore.
Kind hearts can make December blithe as May,
And in each morrow find a New Year's day.

THE OPENING YEAR.

THE OPENING YEAR.

RPHAN 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.

I