PART II The Frost. "Jack Frost," by Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865), is perhaps a hundred years old, but he is the same rollicking fellow to-day as of yore. The poem puts his merry pranks to the front and prepares the way for science to give him a true analysis. THE Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, I will not go on with that blustering train, Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed In diamond beads-and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear He went to the windows of those who slept, Most beautiful things-there were flowers and trees; There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; There were cities with temples and towers, and these All pictured in silver sheen! But he did one thing that was hardly fair; I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, The Owl. WHEN cats run home and light is come, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, When merry milkmaids click the latch, Alone and warming his five wits, ALFRED TENNYSON. |