HE frost looked forth one still clear night, And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight; So through the valley and over the height, In silence I'll take my way;
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,—
But I'll be as busy as they."
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
The downward point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the windows of those that slept,
And over each pane like a fairy crept;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he slept,
By the light of the moon were seen
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,
He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare,
"Now, just to set them a-thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,
"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three,
And the glass of water they've left for me
Shall tchick to tell them I'm drinking."
'HE wind, it is a mystic thing,
Wandering o'er ocean wide,
And fanning all the thousand sails,
That o'er its billows glide.
It curls the blue waves into foam,
It snaps the strongest mast,
Then like a sorrowing thing it sighs,
When the wild storm is past.
And yet how gently does it come
At evening through the bowers,
As if it said a kind "good night"
To all the closing flowers.
It bears the perfume of the rose,
It fans the insect's wing;
'Tis round me, with me everywhere,
Yet 'tis an unseen thing.
How many sounds it bears along,
As o'er the earth it goes;
The songs of many joyous hearts,
The sounds of many woes!
It enters into palace halls,
And carries thence the sound
Of mirth and music ;-but it creeps
The narrow prison round,
And bears away the captive's sigh
Who sits in sorrow there;
Or from the martyr's lonely cell
Conveys his evening prayer.
It fans the reaper's heated brow;
It through the window creeps,
And lifts the fair child's golden curls,
As on her couch she sleeps.
'Tis like the light, a gift to all,
To prince, to peasant given;
Awake, asleep, around us still,
There is this gift of heaven;
This strange mysterious thing we call
The breeze, the air, the wind;
We call it so, but know no more,--
'Tis mystery, like our mind.
Think not the things most wonderful
Are those beyond our ken,—
For wonders are around the paths,
The daily paths of men!
WHICH WAY DOES THE WIND BLOW.
HAT way does the wind come? what way does he go?
He rides over the water, and over the snow;
Through wood, and through vale, and o'er rocky height,
Which the goat cannot climb, takes his sounding flight;
He tosses about in every bare tree,
As, if you look up, you plainly may see;
But how he will come, and whither he goes,
There's never a scholar in England knows.
He will suddenly stop in a cunning nook,
And rings a sharp 'larum;-but, if you should look,
There's nothing to see but a cushion of snow,
Round as a pillow, and whiter than milk,
And softer than if it were covered with silk.
Sometimes he'll hide in the cave of a rock,
Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard cock;
-Yet seek him,—and what shall you find in the place?
Nothing but silence and empty space;
Save in a corner, a heap of dry leaves,
That he's left, for a bed, to beggars or thieves !
As soon as 'tis daylight, to-morrow with me,
You shall go to the orchard, and then you will see
That he has been there, and made a great rout
And cracked the branches, and strewn them about;
Heaven grant that he spare but that one upright twig
That looked up at the sky so proud and big
All last summer, as well you know,
Studded with apples, a beautiful show!
Hark! over the roof he makes a pause,
And growls as if he would fix his claws
Right in the slates, and with a huge rattle
Drive them down, like men in a battle:
-But let him rage round; he does us no harm,
We build up the fire, we're snug and warm;
Untouched by his breath, see the candle shines bright
And burns with a clear and steady light;
Books have we to read,—but that half stifled knell,
Alas! 'tis the sound of the eight o'clock bell.
-Come, now we'll to bed! and when we are there
He may work his own will, and what shall we care?
He may knock at the door,-we'll not let him in;
May drive at the windows,-we'll laugh at his din;
Let him seek his own home wherever it be;
Here's a cosey warm house for Edward and me.
UEEN of the silver bow, by thy pale beam
Alone and pensive I delight to stray,
And watch thy shadow trembling in the stream,
Or mark the floating clouds that cross thy way.
And while I gaze, thy mild and placid light
Sheds a soft calm upon my troubled breast;
And oft I think, fair planet of the night,
That in thy orb the wretched may have rest;
The sufferers of the earth perhaps may go,
Released by death, to thy benignant sphere;
And the sad children of despair and woe,
Forget in thee, their cup of sorrow here.
Oh, that I soon may reach thy world serene,
Poor wearied pilgrim in this toiling scene.
CHARLOTTE SMITH.
|