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I STAND upon my native hills again,

Broad, round, and green, that in the summer sky, With garniture of waving grass and grain,

Orchards, and beechen forests, basking lie; While deep the sunless glens are scoop'd between, Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen.

A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near,

And ever restless feet of one, who, now,
Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year;

There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow,
As breaks the varied scene upon her sight,
Upheaved and spread in verdure and in light.
For I have taught her, with delighted eye,

To gaze upon the mountains,—to behold,
With deep affection, the pure ample sky,

And clouds along its blue abysses roll'd-
To love the song of waters, and to hear
The melody of winds with charmed ear.

Here I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat,

The horrid sounds, and its polluted air; And where the season's milder fervours beat,

And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear The song of bird, and sound of running stream, Am come awhile to wander and to dream.

Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun! thou canst not wake,

In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen,
The maize leaf and the maple bough but take

From thy strong heats, a deeper, glossier green;
The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray,
Sweeps the blue streams of pestilence away.
The mountain wind ! most spiritual thing of all

The wide earth knows—when, in the sultry time,
He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall,

He seems the breath of a celestial clime! As if from Heaven's wide-open gates did flow Health and refreshment on the world below,

DECEMBER.

A young poetess of great promise, named Edith May, has lately appeared in America. The following passage from one of her poems is worthy of Wordsworth himself.

Now through the distant vales the fawn's light foot
Leaveth its cloven impress on the snow;
The woods' soft echoes mock the baying hound;
The hunter builds his watch-fire on the hills ;
The school-boy from his morning task released,
Shoulders his rifle, and goes blithely forth
To start the dusky pheasant from her nest,
Down in the ferny hollows. All day long
There is a sound of muffled hoofs, half drown'd
By the quick sleigh-bell that rejoicingly
Rings in the new-born monarch. All day long
The woodsman plies his sharp and sudden axe
Under the crashing branches.

Vale and mead,
And steadfast wave lie stretch'd beneath my eye,
Clad in one uniform livery. O'er the lake
The skaters flit like shadows, and afar
The waggoner plods beside his smoking team ;
The sportsman, followed by his frolic hounds,
Springs up the breezy hill-side. Save for these,
All breathing life alike seems motionless.

FROST.

A playful little poem, whose author we do not know, is the following :

The frost look'd forth one still clear night,
And he said "I shall soon be out of sight,
So through the valley, and over the height,

In silence I'll take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,

But I'll be as busy as they.”
Then he went to the mountain, and powder'd its crest,
He climb’d up the trees, and their boughs he drest
With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast

Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it might not fear
The downward point of many a spear,
Which he hung on the margin far and near

Where a rock could rear its head.

a

He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept;
Wherever he breathed—wherever he stepp'd,

By the light of the moon were seen
Most beautiful things ; there were flowers and trees,
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees,
There were cities, thrones, temples, and towns, and these

All pictured in silver sheen.

Here I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat,

The horrid sounds, and its polluted air; And where the season's milder fervours beat,

And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear The song of bird, and sound of running stream, Am come awhile to wander and to dream.

Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun! thou canst not wake,

In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen,
The maize leaf and the maple bough but take

From thy strong heats, a deeper, glossier green;
The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray,
Sweeps the blue streams of pestilence away.
The mountain wind ! most spiritual thing of all

The wide earth knows-when, in the sultry time,
He stoops him from his vast cerulean hall,

He seems the breath of a celestial clime! As if from Heaven's wide-open gates did flow Health and refreshment on the world below.

DECEMBER.

A young poetess of great promise, named EDITH MAY, has lately appeared in America. The following passage from one of her poems is worthy of Wordsworth himself,

Now through the distant vales the fawn's light foot
Leaveth its cloven impress on the snow ;
The woods' soft echoes mock the baying hound;
The hunter builds his watch-fire on the hills;
The school-boy from his morning task released,
Shoulders his rifle, and goes blithely forth
To start the dusky pheasant from her nest,
Down in the ferny hollows. All day long
There is a sound of muffled hoofs, half drown'd
By the quick sleigh-bell that rejoicingly
Rings in the new-born monarch. All day long
The woodsman plies his sharp and sudden axe
Under the crashing branches.

Vale and mead,
And steadfast wave lie stretch'd beneath my eye,
Clad in one uniform livery. O'er the lake
The skaters fit like shadows, and afar
The waggoner plods beside his smoking team ;
The sportsman, followed by his frolic hounds,
Springs up the breezy hill-side. Save for these,
All breathing life alike seems motionless.

FROST.

A playful little poem, whose author we do not know, is the following:

The frost look'd forth one still clear night,
And he said "I shall soon be out of sight,
So through the valley, and over the height,

In silence I'll take my way.
I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,

But I'll be as busy as they."
Then he went to the mountain, and powder'd its crest,
He climb'd up the trees, and their boughs he drest
With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast

Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it might not fear
The downward point of many a spear,
Which he hung on the margin far and near

Where a rock could rear its head.

a

He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane, like a fairy, crept ;
Wherever he breathed—wherever he stepp'd,

By the light of the moon were seen
Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees,
There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees,
There were cities, thrones, temples, and towns, and these

All pictured in silver sheen.

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