Piercing a wood, and skirting a narrow and natural causeway Under the rocky wall that hedges the bed of the streamlet, Rounded a craggy point, and saw on a sudden before them Slabs of rock, and a tiny beach, and perfection of water, Picture-like beauty, seclusion sub lime, and the goddess of bathing. There they bathed, of course, and Arthur, the glory of headers, Leapt from the ledges with Hope, he twenty feet, he thirty; There, overbold, great Hobbes from a ten-foot height descended, Prone, as a quadruped, prone with hands and feet protending; There in the sparkling champagne, ecstatic, they shrieked and shouted. "Hobbes's gutter," the Piper entitles the spot, profanely, Hope "the Glory' would have, after Arthur, the glory of headers: But, for before they departed, in shy and fugitive reflex Here in the eddies and there did the splendor of Jupiter glim Was set, and, visible for many a mile, The cottage windows through the twilight blazed, I heeded not the summons: happy time It was indeed for all of us; for me It was a time of rapture. Clear and loud The village clock tolled six. I wheel'd about, Proud and exulting, like an untired horse That cares not for its home. All shod with steel, We hiss'd along the polish'd ice in games Confederate, imitative of the chase And woodland pleasures, the resounding horn, THE wintry west extends his blast, The blinding sleet and snaw: While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day. "The sweeping blast the sky o'ercast," The joyless winter-day, Let others fear, to me more dear My griefs it seems to join; FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are weari- Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, Old year, you must not die; He lieth still: he doth not move: And the New-year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with A jollier year we shall not see. Old year, you shall not die; He was full of joke and jest; But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my And the New-year blithe and How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands, before you die. What is it we can do for you? His face is growing sharp and thin. And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door. TENNYSON. THE RIVULET. AND I shall sleep; and on thy side, Gayly shalt play and glitter here: Amid young flowers and tender grass Thy endless infancy shalt pass; THE GARDEN. How vainly men themselves amaze, To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labors see Crowned from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close, To weave the garlands of repose! Fair Quiet, have I found thee And Innocence, thy sister dear? To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name: Little, alas! they know or heed No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; |