XV.

CHRISTMAS DAY.

Was it a fancy, bred of vagrant guess,

Or well-remember'd fact, that He was born
When half the world was wintry and forlorn,
In Nature's utmost season of distress?
And did the simple earth indeed confess
Its destitution and its craving need,
Wearing the white and penitential weed,
Meet symbol of judicial barrenness?
So be it; for in truth 'tis ever so,

That when the winter of the soul is bare,
The seed of heaven at first begins to grow,
Peeping abroad in desert of despair.

Full many a floweret, good, and sweet, and fair,
Is kindly wrapp'd in coverlet of snow.

XVI.

ON A CALM DAY TOWARDS THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR.

THERE never was an hour of purer peace!
Methinks old Time, in mere mortality,
Gives up the ghost, contented not to be,
And all the pulses of great Nature cease.
Whate'er betokens hope, life, or increase,
The gladsome expectation, or the dread
Of chance and change upon to-morrow fed,
Await the expiration of their lease

In dumb dull apathy. Not on the tree
Stirs the brown leaf; or, if detach'd, it drop,
So very slow it wavers to the ground

One might suppose that central gravity,
Prime law of nature, were about to stop:
Ne'er died a year with spirit so profound.

December 22, 1835.

XVII.

DECEMBER, 1838.

THE poor old year upon its deathbed lies;
Old trees lift up their branches manifold,
Spiry and stern, inveterately old;

Their bare and patient poverty defies

The fickle humour of inconstant skies.

All chill and distant, the great monarch Sun
Beholds the last days of his minion.

What is 't to him how soon the old year dies?
Yet some things are, but lowly things and small,
That wait upon the old year to the last;
Some wee birds pipe a feeble madrigal,
Thrilling kind memories of the summer past;
Some duteous flowers put on their best array
To do meet honour to their lord's decay.

XVIII.

ST. THOMAS' DAY.

So dimly wanes the old year to its end!
And now we are attain'd the very day

When the blest sun hath sent his dimmest ray

From the far south; and now will northward bend.

The days will lengthen,-will the days amend?
Alas! the days or lengthen or decay

By law they ne'er would wish to disobey,

And only sink the blither to ascend.

Few lives are stretch'd to the long weary night
Of dull December, and its mizzling veil

Of day, brief tarrying in the murky dale;
For some in April melt to happier light;
Some burn away in passionate July;
And happier some in ripe October die.

SONNETS AND OTHER POEMS

ON

BIRDS, INSECTS, AND FLOWERS.