Give not our blankets, taxfed Squire, to him,
Thy willing pauper, with the dangerous brow!
He is not worthier, Generous Squire, than thou,
But stronger far, and sound in wind and limb.
Know'st thou you widow? She is wise and chaste;
And comely, though her famish'd eyes wax dim.
Her husband built a house upon the waste,
And lost it: they who found it should make haste
With help for her who, else, will die to day.
She hath no blankets! and no parish-pay:
But she hath frosted feet, a fireless grate,
A well-swept floor—by neighbour's feet untrod!

Not die? Who saith that Nature cannot die?
Everywhere spreadeth, all things covereth
Echoless, motionless, unbounded snow.
The vagrant's footfall waketh no reply:
Starv'd wretch! he pauseth—Whither would he go?
He listeneth finger-lipp'd, and nothing saith
Of all the thoughts that fill'd his soul with woe,
But, freezing into stiffness, lacketh breath.
Dumb deadness pilloweth day on every hill.
Earth has no sound, no motion the dead sky;
No current, sensible to ear or eye,
The muffled stream's unconquerable will.
The pulse of Being seemeth standing still;

Why do the tears swell in his gloom'd wife's eyes?
To her and hers, he is already lost.
Oh, conscious river, crisping in the frost!
Thou snow, that stiflest echo! and ye skies,
Alive with stars, that seem to watch the glade,
And, there, some object, that all ghastly lies!
The last night of the dying Year hath seen
Two widows and twelve orphans newly made!
And Law will have another victim soon.
Not ten yards from our Lady's wayside spring;
Where daisy-rill, ic'd o'er, is glittering,
The lover's gate, and gospel-thorn between;

In the mark'd hut, whose flam'd-up smoke declares
That morn approaches, heavily snores one
Who loves the moon, and seldom sees the sun:
Upon his chested picklocks, gun, and snares,
He sits, and nods. Starting, he wakes, and stares
Red as the fire, after his boys, who run
Through the quick-closing door, into the dun
Cold road, for warmth; while his gloom'd wife prepares
His morning supper. Why do men deny
His right to live by honest labour? Why,
Ev'n as the desert's tyger, is he free?
Gamekeeper once, now poacher, (When to be

Far uplands, gleaming suddenly, advance;
And under the broad moon their farthest snows
Shine like the sunbright lakes of new-found lands;
While from her forehead she her dark hair throws,
And (lord of midnight,) the rapt poet stands
Mute as the Roman, from the shore of France
Gazing on Britain o'er the virgin sea;
And weaving then the fates that were to be,
For generations, times, and climes, and strands,
Unknown and unconceiv'd. Oh, unborn Year!
Disclose the comings which the past commands,
The joy, the woe, the crime, the hope, the fear,

Oh, Forty Eight, thou's but a bairn,
And not owre auld, I hope, to learn!
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care,
Now thou has got thy daddy's chair;
Be sure thou follow out his plan,
Nae waur than he did, honest man.

I CLASP your hand in mine, Willie,
And fancy I've the art
To see, while gazing in your face,
What's passing in your heart:
'T is joy an honest man to hold,
That gem of modest worth,
More prized than all the sordid gold
Of all the mines of earth, Willie,
Of all the mines of earth.

I've marked your love of right, Willie,
Your proud disdain of wrong;
I know you'd rather aid the weak
Than battle for the strong.
The golden rule—religion's stay—
With constancy pursue,
Which renders others all that they
On earth can render you, Willie,

The limpid shimmering sea is like a turquoise:
indigo afar, crystal near the shore.
The sun, gently kissing the horizon,
shines on the waters as a mist of gold.

The boat moves gaily to the urging oars;
the surface shivers with a silvery splash;
and neath the mountain, thick with arid green,
a radiant yellow stretch of shore extends.

A pelican, flapping down with fainting flight,
on the deep velvet carpet of the waves
tapers its wings and spreads them open wide.

No sound, no plaint, no anguish, no desire;

Just a picture of somebody's child,—
—Sweet face set in golden hair,
Violet eyes, and cheeks of rose,
—Rounded chin, with a dimple there,

Tender eyes where the shadows sleep,
—Lit from within by a secret ray,—
Tender eyes that will shine like stars
—When love and womanhood come this way:

Scarlet lips with a story to tell,—
—Blessed be he who shall find it out,
Who shall learn the eyes' deep secret well,
—And read the heart with never a doubt.

Then you will tremble, scarlet lips,
—Then you will crimson, loveliest cheeks:

A wind-song in the rushes, or a sigh
From Autumn's chorus in the naked trees,
The white-stoled chanting of the stately seas
Against a line of cliffs that tower high—
A plover's rippling whistle in the sky
Or wailing of the flutes in minor keys:
I in my time have harked to all of these
And reedy plash of waters lisping by.

But Oh! how harsh such chords must ever seem
Since in my heart I hear an echo come
More sweet and low than plaint of mourning-dove;
The reflex of the note that is my dream,
That music which makes other music dumb