The Winter Walk at Noon.

HE night was winter in his roughest mood,
The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon
Upon the southern side of the slant hills,

And where the woods fence off the northern blast,
The season smiles, resigning all its rage,

And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue
Without a cloud, and white without a speck
The dazzling splendour of the scene below.
Again the harmony comes o'er the vale,

And through the trees I view the embattled tower
Whence all the music. I again perceive
The soothing influence of the wafted strains,
And settle in soft musings as I tread

The walk still verdant under oaks and elms,
Whose outspread branches over-arch the glade.
The roof, though movable through all its length
As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed,
And intercepting in their silent fall

The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.
No noise is here, or none that hinders thought.
The redbreast warbles still, but is content

With slender notes, and more than half suppressed.
Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light
From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes
From many a twig the pendent drops of ice,
That tinkle in the withered leaves below.
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,
Charms more than silence.

Cowper.

To follow in the field his daily toil,

And dress the grateful glebe that yields him fruits.
The beasts that under the warm hedges slept,
And weather'd out the cold, bleak night, are up ;
And, looking towards the neighbouring pastures, raise
Their voice, and bid their fellow-brutes good-morrow.
The cheerful birds, too, on the tops of trees,
Assemble all the choirs; and with their notes
Salute and welcome up the rising sun.

THOMAS OTWAY.

[THOMAS OTWAY, an unfortunate poet, ranks high as a dramatic writer. He particularly excelled in pathetic delineation. He fell into deep poverty, and died at the age of thirty-four, in so wretched a state of destitution, that it was popularly asserted he had been choked by a piece of bread, devoured in the rage of hunger.]

Y

What! were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight;
And so to bid good-night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave :
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, awhile, they glide
Into the grave.

HERRICK.

[ROBERT HERRICK, a clergyman of the Church of England, who lived during the reign of Charles I. and the Cromwellian period, wrote many graceful poems. In some of his productions, however, the purity of thought that betrays the true poet is lamentably wanting. Herrick was deprived of his living under Cromwell's rule, but regained it at the Restoration.]

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog.

OOD people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song, And, if you find it wondrous short,

It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran-
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad-
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man, at first, were friends;

But, when a pique began,

The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wondering neighbours ran,

172

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

And swore the dog had lost his wits
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad,
Christian eye;

To every

And, while they swore the dog was mad,

They swore the man would die,

But soon a wonder came to light,
That showed the rogues they lied;
The man recover'd of the bite-

The dog it was that died.