THE BLACKBIRD. BLACKBIRD! sing me something well: I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, The espaliers and the standards all Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring, A golden bill! the silver tongue, That made thee famous once, when young: And in the sultry garden-squares, Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, Take warning! he that will not sing While THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die; He lieth still he doth not move : He hath no other life above. He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, So long as you have been with us, He froth'd his bumpers to the brim ; Old year, you shall not die ; He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er. To see him die, across the waste Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, How hard he breathes! over the snow The cricket chirps: the light burns low: Shake hands, before you die. Old year, we 'll dearly rue for you : Speak His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack! our friend is gone, Close up his eyes: tie up his chin: Step from the corpse, and let him in That Standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, To J. S. THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows More softly round the open wold, And gently comes the world to those And me this knowledge bolder made, Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, Fall into shadow, soonest lost : Those we love first are taken first. God gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone. This is the curse of time. Alas! In grief I am not all unlearn'd; Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass ; One went, who never hath return'd. He will not smile - not speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been. Your loss is rarer; for this star Rose with you thro' a little arc Of heaven, nor having wander'd far Shot on the sudden into dark. I knew your brother: his mute dust I have not look'd upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I: I will not tell you not to weep. And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, I will not even preach to you, 66 Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain." Let Grief be her own mistress still. Be done I will not say "God's ordinance Of Death is blown in every wind"; For that is not a common chance His That takes away a noble mind. memory long will live alone In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun, And dwells in heaven half the night. |