IV.

Or in the peaceful calm of stormy evens, When the sick, bloodless West doth winding spread A sheeted shroud of silver o'er the heavens And brooches it with one rich star's gold head, Low lay thee down beside a mountain lake, Which dimples at the twilight's sigh, Couched on plush mosses 'neath green bosks that shake Storm fragrance from on high,-- The cold, pure spice of rain-drenched forests deep,-- And gorge thy grief upon the nightingale, Who with the hush a war doth keep That bubbles down the starlit vale To Silence's rapt ear.

THE PASSING OF THE BEAUTIFUL.

On southern winds shot through with amber light, Breeding soft balm, and clothed in cloudy white, The lily-fingered Spring came o'er the hills Waking the crocus and the daffodils. O'er the cold earth she breathed a tender sigh,-- The maples sang and flung their banners high, Their crimson-tasseled pennons, and the elm Bound his dark brows with a green-crested helm. Beneath the musky rot of Autumn's leaves, Under the forest's myriad naked eaves, Life woke and rose in gold and green and blue, Robed in the star-light of the twinkling dew. With timid tread adown the barren wood Spring held her way, when, lo! before her stood White-mantled Winter wagging his white head, Stormy his brow, and stormily he said:-- "Sole lord of terror, and the fiend of storm, Crowned king of despots, my envermeiled arm Slew these vast woodlands crimsoning all their bowers! Thou, Spirit of Beauty, with thy bursting flowers, Swollen with pride, wouldst thou usurp my throne, Long planted here deep in the waste's wild moan? Sworn foe of beauty, with a band of ice I'll strangle thee tho' thou be welcomer thrice!" So round her throat a band of blasting frost, Her sainted throat of snow, he coiled and crossed, And cast her on the dark, unfeeling mold; Her tender blossoms, blighted in the fold Of her warm bosoms, trembling bowed their brows In holy meekness, or in scattered rows Huddled about her white and silent feet, Or on pale lips laid fond last kisses sweet, And died: lilacs all musky for the May, And bluer violets, and snow drops lay Silent and dead, but yet divinely fair, Like ice gems glist'ning in Spring's lovely hair. The Beautiful, so innocent, sweet, and pure, Why must thou perish, and the evil still endure? Too soon must pass the Beautiful away! Too long doth Terror hold anarchal sway! Alas! sad heart, bow not beneath the pain, Time changeth all, the Beautiful wakes again! We can not question such; a higher power Knows best what bud is ripest in its flower; Silently plucks it at the fittest hour.

A NOVEMBER SKETCH.

The hoar-frost hisses 'neath the feet, And the worm-fence's straggling length, Smote by the morning's slanted strength, Sparkles one rib of virgin sleet.

To withered fields the crisp breeze talks, And silently and sadly lifts The bronz'd leaves from the beech and drifts Them wadded down the woodland walks.

Reluctantly and one by one The worthless leaves sift slowly down, And thro' the mournful vistas blown Drop rustling, and their rest is won.

Where stands the brook beneath its fall, Thin-scaled with ice the pool is bound, And on the pebbles scattered 'round The ooze is frozen; one and all

White as rare crystals shining fair. There stirs no life: the faded wood Mourns sighing, and the solitude Seems shaken with a mighty care.

Decay and silence sadly drape The vigorous limbs of oldest trees, The rotting leaves and rocks whose knees Are shagged with moss, with misty crape.

To sullenness the surly crow All his derisive feeling yields, And o'er the barren stubble-fields Flaps cawless, wrapped in hungry woe.

The eve comes on: the teasel stoops Its spike-crowned head before the blast; The tattered leaves drive whirling past Like skeletons in whistling troops.

The pithy elder copses sigh; Their broad blue combs with berries weighed, Like heavy pendulums are swayed With ev'ry gust that hurries by.

Thro' matted walls of tangled brier That hedge the lane, the sumachs thrust Their scarlet torches red as rust, Burning with flames of stolid fire.

The evening's here--cold, hard, and drear; The lavish West with bullion bright Of molten silver walls the night Far as one star's thin rays appear.

Wedged toward the West's cold luridness The wild geese fly 'neath roseless domes; The wild cry of the leader comes Distant and harsh with loneliness.

The pale West dies, and in its cup Bubble on bubble pours the night: The East glows with a mystic light; The stars are keen; the moon is up.

THE WHITE EVENING.

From gray, bleak hills 'neath steely skies Thro' beards of ice the forests roar; Along the river's humming shore The skimming skater bird-like flies.

On windy meads where wave white breaks, Where fettered briers' glist'ning hands Reach to the cold moon's ghastly lands, Hoots the lorn owl, and crouching quakes.

With frowsy snow blanched is the world; Stiff sweeps the wind thro' murmuring pines, Then fiend-like deep-entangled whines Thro' the dead oak, that vagrant twirled

Phantoms the cliff o'er the wild wold: Ghost-vested willows rim the stream, Low hang lank limbs where in a dream The houseless hare leaps o'er the cold

On snow-tressed crags that twinkling flash, Like champions mailed for clanking war, Glares down large Phosphor's quiv'ring star, Where teeth of foam the fierce seas gnash.

Slim o'er the tree-tops weighed with white The country church's spire doth swell, A scintillating icicle, While fitfully the village light

In sallow stars stabs the gray dark; Homeward the creaking wagons strain Thro' knee-deep drifts; the steeple's vane A flitting ghost whirls in its sark.

Down from the flaky North with clash, Swathed in his beard of flashing sleet, With steeds of winds that jangling beat Life from the world, and roaring dash,--

Loud Winter! ruddy as a rose Blown by the June's mild, musky lips; The high moon dims her horn that dips, And fold on fold roll down the snows.

SUMMER.