Perilous to wight so small, give holiday,

Forth roaming, now wild-berries pulls, now paints,
Artless, his rosy cheek with purple hue;

Now wonders that the nest, hung in the leafless thorn,
So full in view, escaped erewhile his search;
On tiptoe raised, ah, disappointment dire!
His eager hand finds nought but wither'd leaves.
Night comes again; the cloudless canopy
Is one bright arch, myriads, myriads of stars.
To him who wanders 'mong the silent woods,
The twinkling orbs beam through the leafless boughs,
Which erst excluded the meridian ray.

NOVEMBER.

LANGUID the morning beam slants o'er the lea;
The hoary grass, crisp, crackles 'neath the tread.
On the haw-cluster'd thorns, a motley flock
Of birds, of various plume, and various note,
Discordant chirp; the linnet, and the thrush,
With speckled breast, the blackbird yellow-beak'd,
The goldfinch, fieldfare, with the sparrow, pert
And clamorous above his shivering mates,
While, on the house-top, faint the redbreast plains.
Where do ye lurk, ye houseless commoners,

When bleak November's sun is overcast ;

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When sweeps the blast fierce through the deepest groves,
Driving the fallen leaves in whirling wreaths;
When scarce the raven keeps her bending perch,
When dashing cataracts are backward blown?
A deluge pours; loud comes the river down:
The margin trees now insulated seem,
As if they in the midway current grew.
Oft let me stand upon the giddy brink,

And chase, with following gaze, the whirling foam,

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Or woodland wreck. Ah me, that broken branch,
Sweeping along, may tempt some heedless boy,
Sent by his needy parents to the woods
For brushwood gleanings for their evening fire,
To stretch too far his little arm; he falls,
He sinks! Long is he look'd for, oft he's call'd;
His homeward whistle oft is fancied near:
His playmates find him on the oozy bank,
And in his stiffen'd grasp the fatal branch.

Short is the day; dreary the boisterous night :
At intervals the moon gleams through the clouds,
And, now and then, a star is dimly seen.

When daylight breaks, the woodman leaves his hut, And oft the axe's echoing stroke is heard At last the yielding oak's loud crash resounds, Crushing the humble hawthorn in its fall. The husbandman slow plods from ridge to ridge, Dishearten'd, and rebuilds his prostrate sheaves.

DECEMBER.

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WHERE late the wild-flower bloom'd, the brown leaf lies;
Not even the snowdrop cheers the dreary plain :
The famish'd birds forsake each leafless spray,
And flock around the barn-yard's winnowing store.
Season of social mirth! of fireside joys!

I love thy shorten'd day, when, at its close,
The blazing tapers, on the jovial board,
Dispense o'er every care-forgetting face

Their cheering light, and round the bottle glides:
Now far be banish'd from our social ring

The party wrangle fierce, the argument
Deep, learned, metaphysical, and dull,
Oft dropp'd, as oft again renew'd, endless:
Rather I'd hear stories twice ten times told,

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Or vapid joke, filch'd from Joe Miller's page,
Or tale of ghost, hobgoblin dire, or witch;
Nor would I, with a proud fastidious frown,
Proscribe the laugh-provoking pun: absurd
Though 't be, far-fetch'd, and hard to be discern'd,
It serves the purpose, if it shake our sides.
Now let the circling wine inspire the song,
The catch, the glee; or list the melting lays
Of Scotia's pastoral vales,-they ever please.

rage,

Loud blows the blast; while, shelter'd from its The social circle feel their joys enhanced. Ah! little think they of the storm-toss'd ship, Amid the uproar of the winds and waves, The waves unseen save by the lightning's glare, Or cannon's flash, sad signal of distress. The trembling crew each moment think they feel The shock of sunken rock; at last they strike: Borne on the blast their dying voices reach, Faintly, the sea-girt hamlet; help is vain : The morning light discloses to the view The mast alternate seen and hid, as sinks Or heaves the surge. The early village maid Turns pale, like clouds when o'er the moon they glide; She thinks of her true love, far, far at sea ; Mournful, the live-long day she turns her wheel, And ever and anon her head she bends, While with the flax she dries the trickling tear.

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TO A REDBREAST,

THAT FLEW IN AT MY WINDOW.

FROM Snowy plains and icy sprays,
From moonless nights and sunless days,
Welcome, poor bird! I'll cherish thee;
I love thee, for thou trustest me.
Thrice welcome, helpless, panting guest!
Fondly I'll warm thee in my breast:
How quick thy little heart is beating!
As if its brother flutterer greeting.
Thou need'st not dread a captive's doom;
No! freely flutter round my room;
Perch on my lute's remaining string,
And sweetly of sweet summer sing.
That note, that summer note, I know;
It wakes, at once, and soothes my woe,-
I see those woods, I see that stream,
I see,-ah, still prolong the dream!
Still with thy song those scenes renew,
Though through my tears they reach

No more now, at my lonely meal,
While thou art by, alone I'll feel
1;
For soon, devoid of all distrust,

my

Thou 'lt, nibbling, share my humble crust;
Or on my finger, pert and spruce,
Thou'lt learn to sip the sparkling juice;

And when (our short collation o'er)

Some favourite volume I explore,

Be't work of poet or of sage,
Safe thou shalt hop across the page,
Uncheck'd, shalt flit o'er Virgil's groves,
Or flutter 'mid Tibullus' loves.

view.

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Thus, heedless of the raving blast,
Thou 'lt dwell with me till winter's past;
And when the primrose tells 'tis spring,
And when the thrush begins to sing,
Soon as I hear the woodland song,
I'll set thee free to join the throng.

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EPITAPH ON A BLACKBIRD,

KILLED BY A HAWK.

1 WINTER was o'er, and spring-flowers deck'd the glade, The Blackbird's note among the wild woods rung: Ah, short-lived note! the songster now is laid Beneath the bush on which so sweet he sung.

2 Thy jetty plumes, by ruthless falcon rent,
Are now all soil'd among the mouldering clay;
A primrosed turf is all thy monument,

And, for thy dirge, the Redbreast lends his lay.

TO ENGLAND, ON THE SLAVE TRADE.

Of all thy foreign crimes, from pole to pole,
None moves such indignation in my soul,
Such hate, such deep abhorrence, as thy trade
In human beings!

Thy ignorance thou dar'st to plead no more;
The proofs have thunder'd from the Afric shore.
Behold, behold, yon rows ranged over rows,
Of dead with dying link'd in death's last throes.
Behold a single victim of despair,

Dragg'd upon deck to gasp the ocean air;

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