NATURE.

JANUARY WIND.

ROBERT BUCHANAN. ABRIDGED.

THE wind, wife, the wind; how it blows, how it blows! It grips the latch, it shakes the house, it whistles, it screams, it crows,

It dashes on the window-pane, then rushes off with a

cry,

You scarce can hear your own loud voice, it clatters so loud and high;

And far away upon the sea, it floats with thunder-call, The wind, wife, the wind, wife; the wind that did it all!

The wind, wife, the wind; how it blows, how it blows! It changes, shifts without a cause, it ceases, it comes and goes;

And David was ever the same, wayward, and wild and bold;

For wilful lad will have his way, and the wind no hand can hold;

But ah! the wind, the changeful wind, was more to blame than he;

The wind, wife, the wind, wife; that blew him out to

sea!

935

The wind, wife, the wind; now 'tis still, now 'tis still. And as we sit, I seem to feel the silence shiver and thrill. 'Twas thus the night he went away, and we sat in silence here,

We listened to our beating hearts, and all was heavy and drear;

We longed to hear the wind again, and to hold our David's hand,

The wind, wife, the wind, wife; that blew him out from land!

The wind, wife, the wind; up again, up again !

It blew our David round the world, yet shrieked at our window-pane;

And ever since that time, old wife, in rain, and in sun, and in snow,

Whether I work or weary here, I hear it whistle and blow.

It moans around, it groans, it wanders with scream and

cry,

The wind, wife, the wind, wife; may it blow him home to die!

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THOU blossom bright with autumn dew,
And colored with the heavens' own blue,
That openest, when the quiet light
Succeeds the keen and frosty night.

Thou comest not when violets lean

O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Or columbines, in purple drest,

Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late, and com'st alone
When woods are bare, and birds are flown,
And frosts and shortening days portend
The aged Year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
Look through its fringes to the sky,
Blue, blue as though that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see
The hour of death draw near to me,
Hope, blossoming within my heart,
May look to Heaven, as I depart.

TRAILING ARBUTUS.

ROSE TERRY.

DARLINGS of the forest,

Blossoming alone,

When Earth's grief is sorest

For her jewels gone

Ere the last snowdrift melts, your tender buds have blown.

Tinged with color faintly,

Like the morning sky,

Or, more pale and saintly

Wrapped in leaves ye lie —

Even as children sleep in faith's simplicity.

There the wild wood-robin

Hymns your solitude;

And the rain comes sobbing

Through the budding wood,

While the low south-wind sighs, but dares not be more rude.

Were your pure lips fashioned

Out of rain and dew

Starlight unimpassioned,

Dawn's most tender hue,

And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for

Fairest and most lonely,

From the world apart;

Made for beauty only,

Veiled from Nature's heart

you?

With such unconscious grace as makes the dream of Art!

Were not mortal sorrow

An immortal shade,

Then would I to-morrow

Such a flower be made,

And live in the dear woods where my lost childhood

played.