A SONG. A WIDOW bird sate mourning for her love The frozen wind kept on above, There was no leaf upon the forest bare, And little motion in the air Except the mill-wheel's sound. THE WORLD'S WANDERERS, TELL me, thou star, whose wings of light Speed thee in thy fiery flight, In what cavern of the night Will thy pinions close now? Tell me, moon, thou pale and grey Weary wind, who wanderest A DIRGE. ROUGH wind, that moanest loud Wild wind, when sullen cloud Wail, for the world's wrong! Withered hopes on hopes are spread, Dying joys choked by the dead, DIRGE FOR THE YEAR. ORPHAN hours, the year is dead, Come and sigh, come and weep! Merry hours, smile instead, For the year is but asleep. As an earthquake rocks a corse So White Winter, that rough nurse, For your mother in her shroud.. The tree-swung cradle of a child, Rocks the year:—be calm and mild, Trembling hours, she will arise With new love within her eyes. January grey is here, Like a sexton by her grave; March with grief doth howl and rave Follow with May's fairest flowers. January 1st, 1821. |