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: He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, And the New-year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go; 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. And a new face at the door, my A new face at the door. 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; Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walked without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new, Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run, And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we! How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers? MARVELL. LACHIN Y GAIR. AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses! In you let the minions of luxury rove; Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers: They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Gair. "Ill-starred, though brave, did no visions foreboding Tell you that Fate had forsaken your cause?" Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, Victory crowned not your fall with applause; Still were you happy; in death's early slumber You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar, |