Journeying, in long serenity, away. In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And when my last sand twinkled in the glass WILLIAM C. BRYANT. NOVEMBER. A SONNET. Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun! And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze Nods lonely, of the beauteous race the last. Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, And men delight to linger in thy ray. Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air. WILLIAM C. BRYANT. NOVEMBER. November's sky is chill and drear, No longer Autumn's glowing red No more, beneath the evening beam, SIR WALTER SCOTT. NOVEMBER IN ENGLAND. No sun-no moon! No morn-no noon No dawn-no dusk-no proper time of day- No distance, looking blue No road-no street-no t'other side the way— No indications where the "crescents" No top to any steeple No recognitions of familiar people— No courtesies for showing 'em- No traveling at all-no locomotion No inkling of the way--no notion- No news from any foreign coast No park, no ring-no afternoon gentility- No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, T. HOOD. SONNET. NOVEMBER, 1792. There is strange music in the stirring wind If in such shades, beneath their murmuring, SONG. DECEMBER I. REV. WILLIAM L. BOWLES. A spirit haunts the year's last hours, For at eventide, listening earnestly, At his work you may hear him sob and sigh, Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks of the moldering flowers; O'er its grave, the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hellyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily, II. The air is damp, and hushed, and close, My very heart faints, and my whole soul grieves And the breath Of the fading edges of box beneath, and the year's last rose. Over its grave, the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. ALFRED TENNYSON. XIX. The Schoolmistress. NE does not often meet with Shenstone's "Schoolmistress" Ο ΝΕ now-a-days, and as every year makes her more of a rarity, we have given her a place in our rustic group. 'There appears to be no doubt that Shenstone, who learned to read from the old dame who taught the village school at HalesOwen, his native hamlet, sketched from life, when he drew the old "Schoolmistress," her blue apron, her single hen, and the noisy little troop about her. To us, however, in these very different days, the simple rustic sketch assumes something of the dignity of an historical picture. The little thatched cottage of the dame is still to be seen near Hales-Owen, as well as the gabled roof of the Leasowes, under which the poet was born. The old homes of England, whether cot or castle, are seldom leveled by the hand of man, and they long remain as links between successive generations. A few of the stanzas have been omitted, in order to bring the poem within the limits of this volume. |