Dreary snows are all around us in the gardens,
And the starlit frosty sky is chilly blue.
On the silent stream the stifling cold ice hardens:
The moon shivers at the air it travels through.
Yet the sweetest of the seasons is the winter:
Winter well may smile at summer's ardent scorn.
When the air was keen with many an icy splinter,
Love with summer at the heart of him was born.

Love hath summer in his spirit never dying.
Does it matter if the wild wind through the sprays
Dashes, leaving all the tossing branches sighing?

When the leaves are whirling through the forest olden,
Grey and green and brown and crimson dying leaves,
Sodden leaves that only yesterday were golden,
While the autumn wind-swept foliage sways and heaves,
There are ghosts of lovers through the forest questing,
Seeking vainly as their weary footsteps stray,
Haunts they loved when all around the birds were nesting
And the air was sweet with fragrance of the may.

Weary ghosts they are of former happy lovers.
Now they find no mossy carpet for their feet

Grand and glorious is the season of the roses.
Spring has passed, but stronger sunlight gilds the corn.
On the silver stream the lily's head reposes,
And the ripple lifts it tenderly at morn,
Love has deepened, with the deepening of the season.
Love has strengthened, with the passing of the hours.
Love has grown beyond the fear of change or treason.
Love has stolen the glow and glory of the flowers.

Man and woman understand and love each other.
Through the silent leafy summer lanes they wend,

First begin
Taking in.
Cargo stored,
All aboard,
Think about
Giving out.
Empty ship,
Useless trip!

Never strain
Weary brain.
Hardly fit,
Wait a bit!
After rest
Comes the best.
Sitting still,
Let it fill;
Never press;
Never stress
Always shows.
Nature knows.

Critics kind,
Never mind!
Critics flatter,
No matter!
Critics curse,
None the worse!
Critics blame,
All the same!
Do your best.
Hang the rest!

You hearts that beat with feelings nice
Come vibrate now with mine,
And with a tear of sympathy
Bedew the captive's shrine,
Nor blush to shew the crystal drop,
Which pity bids to dawn,
More balmy than the morning dew,
That gilds the spangled lawn.

The flutt'ring starling touch'd the key
By which our heart-strings beat,
Whilst busy fancy brought to view,
The wretched captive's fate:
The portrait struck the trembling cords,
That thrill thro' nature's frame;
Whilst sighs responsive from his cell,

Let the soldier look big with his sword and cockade,
And the courtier exult in his birth-day brocade,
With blessings less splendid quite happy I'd be,
Let content, sweet content, be the portion for me,

Tho' no gilded vase can be found in my store,
Nor my snug tables groan with the Mexican ore,
If a friend will but bless, and a competence I,
Content, sweet content, will all splendour out vie.

Let the patriot loud boast of his virtuous career,
And swear, than his life, that his country's more deaf,

The raging tempest, roaring seas,
Have trump'd the tar's renown,
As if our land's-men liv'd at ease,
Nor toil'd for glory's crown;
But sure they too may loyal prove,
And feel the gentle flame of love.

The foaming billows dreadful swell,
The tar's repose alarms;
The bugle sounding for his knell,
The land's-man wakes to arms;
Not for himself the crown to wear
But for his country, and the fair.

The rampart's crested top he mounts,
Midst cannon's dreadful roar,
Grim visag'd war as naught he counts,

" And this, " quoth he " thou faithful friend,
" I'd gladly share with thee;
" But soon, too soon! has been thy end
" Oppress'd by care and me. "
I thought such tender traits of woe,
Bespoke a parent's care,
'Twas nature bade the current flow
To mourn his ass sincere.

The bridle by his side he laid,
Which e'er anon he view'd,
And then a silent tribute paid,
But still his dirge pursu'd;
Then pensive from his scrip he took
His small, but grateful store,
With anxious grief his head he shook,

My country! guilty as thou art,
I love thee even yet,
Though not with all my heart;
For I can ne'er forget,
That Afric's children groan in chains,
Beneath thy peaceful shade,
And thou, unblushing, wear'st the stains,
That Slavery's blood has made.

Weep — weep, my country! — or thy blood,
May yet efface the wrong;
Let grief come o'er thee, like a flood,
And pour thy vales along;
Oh! we would have our country FREE
And PURE as blush of morn; —
Would have unsullied LIBERTY
The humblest brow adorn.

(After H EINE )

Through the lonely mountain land
 There rode a cavalier.
“Oh, ride I to my darling's arms,
 Or to the grave so drear?”
 The Echo answered clear,
 “The grave so drear.”

So onward rode the cavalier
 And clouded was his brow.
“If now my hour be truly come,
 Ah well, it must be now!”
 The Echo answered low,
 “It must be now.”