Thy hands are busy, noisy blast,
In stripping each discolour'd tree
Of shoals of leaves, which flutter past:
Their ruin this, but sport to thee.
And though thy violence we see,
Now tearing down a load, and now,

But what would fill an infant's hand;

Yet, ere thou goest, each tree shall stand With trunk unveil'd, and leafless bough.

Yet no: the oak and beech shall still
Hold to the south some garland sere;
Nor lose those hard-kept honours, till
The winter-wind, thy wild compeer,
Roar still more loudly in the ear.
And see the holly stands secure :

It scorns you both, defies your bluster,
Nor loses leaf, nor coral cluster,

Unless for Christmas garniture.

Like leaves from some deciduous tree,
Since youthful fancies fall away,

Oh, may I like yon holly be,

And gain those nobler tastes, which stay!
Nor, as life's seasons change, decay!

May I accomplishments possess,

To make me, like the holly bower, Retain a cheering leafiness,

Yea, e'en in age's wintry hour.

R.

TO A BUTTERFLY RESTING ON

A SKULL.

BY F. HEMANS.

CREATURE of air and light,
Emblem of that which may not fade or die!
Wilt thou not speed thy flight,

To chase the south wind through the sunny sky?
What lures thee thus to stay

With Silence and Decay,

Fix'd on the wreck of dull Mortality?

The thoughts once chamber'd there

Have gather'd up their treasures, and are gone! Will the dust tell us where

They that have burst the prison-house are flown? Rise, nurseling of the Day,

If thou wouldst trace their way!

Earth has no voice to make the secret known!

Who seeks the vanish'd bird

By the forsaken nest and broken shell?
Far thence he sings unheard,

Yet free and joyous midst the woods to dwell!
Thou, of the sunshine born,

Take the bright wings of morn!

Thy hope calls heavenward from yon ruin'd cell!

HYMN.

Written on a Summer Evening.

OH! who, great God, can gaze
On those, thy works above,
And his dark soul not raise
Thy boundless power to praise,

And thy all-boundless love?

Oh! who can see that light
In her soft majesty,

Midst thousand stars of night,

And yet not feel the sight
Exalt his soul to thee!

Can view the lightning glare
Along the summer sky,
Nor, as it cleaves the air,

Confess ONE greater there,
The Lord of lightning nigh?

+

THE ALPS AT DAY-BREAK.

BY ROGERS.

THE Sunbeams streak the azure skies,
And line with light the mountain's brow:
With hounds and horns the hunters rise,
And chase the roebuck through the snow.

The goats wind slow their wonted way,
Up craggy steeps and ridges rude;
Mark'd by the wild wolf for his prey,

From desert cave, or hanging wood.

And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliff's reply,
The huts peep o'er the morning cloud,
Perch'd, like an eagle's nest, on high.

TO THE EAGLE.

BY W. B. CLARKE.

BIRD of the storm! whose fiery eye

Doth from some cloud-girt peak look down; Oh! that with thee 'twere mine to soar

Up to the illimitable sky,

Which thou, as foray-field, doth own,
And the bright realms of light explore!

Chain'd by mortality, below,

Man feels in vain his spirit rise; Encumber'd by his tent of clay,

In vain he pants, like thee, to know, The limits of the starry skies,

The ceaseless fount of heavenly day.

Forth from high eyrie, stretch'd thy wing
For loftier flight than eye can bear,
Thou soarest through the ether blue,
Till, like a speck or noteless thing,

Thou fadest, in the sunny air,

Upon the gazer's prying view.