« PreviousContinue »
WRITTEN IN GERMANY,
ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY.
I must apprise the Reader that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping Horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms.
A FIG for your languages, German and Norse!
And the tongs and the poker, instead of that Horse
On this dreary dull plate of black metal.
Our earth is no doubt made of excellent stuff;
But her pulses beat slower and slower :
The weather in Forty was cutting and rough,
And then, as Heaven knows, the Glass stood low enough; And now it is four degrees lower.
Here's a Fly, a disconsolate creature, perhaps
And, sorrow for him! this dull treacherous heat
Alas! how he fumbles about the domains
Which this comfortless oven environ!
He cannot find out in what track he must crawl,
Stock-still there he stands like a traveller bemazed;
His feelers methinks I can see him put forth
To the East and the West, and the South and the North; But he finds neither Guide-post nor Guide.
See! his spindles sink under him, foot, leg and thigh;
His eye-sight and hearing are lost;
Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws;
No Brother, no Friend has he near him—while I
As if green summer grass were the floor of my room,
Yet, God is my witness, thou small helpless Thing!
Till summer comes up from the South, and with crowds
Of thy brethren a march thou shouldst sound through the
And back to the forests again.
Written at a small Distance from my House, and sent by my little Boy to the Person to whom they are addressed.
It is the first mild day of March:
The Red-breast sings from the tall Larch
That stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field.
My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Make haste, your morning task resign;
Edward will come with you; and pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living Calendar:
We from to-day, my Friend, will date
The opening of the year.
Love, now an universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth:
-It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more
Than fifty years of reason:
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.
Some silent laws our hearts may make,
Which they shall long obey:
We for the year to come may take
Our temper from to-day.