II. Not Love, nor War, nor the tumultuous swell Watching the blue smoke of the elmy grange, III. SEPTEMBER, 1815. WHILE not a leaf seems faded, — while the fields, With ripening harvest prodigally fair, In brightest sunshine bask, this nipping air, Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields Of bitter change- and bids the Flowers beware; And whispers to the silent Birds, "Prepare Against the threatening Foe your trustiest shields." For me, who under kindlier laws belong To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky, Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song, IV. NOVEMBER 1. How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright Uprisen, as if to check approaching night, And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread, If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head Terrestrial - but a surface, by the flight Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, Unswept, unstained? Nor shall the aerial Powers Dissolve that beauty · destined to endure, White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, Through all vicissitudes till genial spring Have filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers. V. COMPOSED DURING A STORM. ONE who was suffering tumult in his soul Yet failed to seek the sure relief of Went forth prayer, - his course surrendering to the care Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers tear And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl Of providential goodness ever nigh! VI. TO A SNOW-DROP. LONE Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they, But hardier far, once more I see thee bend Thy forehead, as if fearful to offend, Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day, |