Then we will laugh at winter when we hear Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave, And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, And melt the icicles from off his chin. THE NEW MOON. WHEN, as the garish day is done, Heaven burns with the descended sun, 'Tis passing sweet to mark, Amid that flush of crimson light, The new moon's modest bow grow bright, As earth and sky grow dark. Few are the hearts too cold to feel A thrill of gladness o'er them steal, When first the wandering eye Sees faintly, in the evening blaze, The sight of that young crescent brings And childhood's purity and grace, The passing shower of tears. The captive yields him to the dream And painfully the sick man tries On the soft promise there. Most welcome to the lover's sight, For prattling poets say, That sweetest is the lovers' walk, And tenderest is their murmured talk, Beneath its gentle ray. And there do graver men behold Forsaken and forgiven; And thoughts and wishes not of earth, Just opening in their early birth, Like that new light in heaven. OCTOBER. A SONNET. Aỳ, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath, In the gay woods and in the golden air, In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee, mid bowers and brooks, And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. THE DAMSEL OF PERU. WHERE olive leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew, 'Tis a song of love and valour, in the noble Spanish tongue, For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side, |