The fountains in their secret places cool; And it is He who leadeth up the sun, And ordereth the starry influences,

And tempereth the keenness of the frostAnd therefore, in the plenty of the feast, And in the lifting of the cup, let HIM Have praises for the well-completed year.

JANUARY 1, 1829.

WINTER is come again. The sweet south-west
Is a forgotten wind, and the strong earth
Has laid aside its mantle to be bound
By the frost fetter. There is not a sound,
Save of the skater's heel, and there is laid
An icy finger on the lip of streams,

And the clear icicle hangs cold and still,
And the snow-fall is noiseless as a thought.

Spring has a rushing sound, and Summer sends

Many sweet voices with its odours out,

And Autumn rustleth its decaying robe

With a complaining whisper. Winter's dumb!

God made his ministry a silent one,

And he has given him a foot of steel

And an unlovely aspect, and a breath
Sharp to the senses-and we know that He
Tempereth well, and hath a meaning hid
Under the shadow of His hand. Look up;
And it shall be interpreted :-Your home
Hath a temptation now! There is no voice

Of waters with beguiling for your ear,
And the cool forest and the meadows green
Witch not your feet away; and in the dells
There are no violets, and upon the hills
There are no sunny places to lie down.
You must go in, and by your cheerful fire
Wait for the offices of love, and hear
Accents of human tenderness, and feast
Your eye upon the beauty of the young.
It is a season for the quiet thought,

And the still reckoning with thyself. The year
Gives back the spirits of its dead, and time
Whispers the history of its vanish'd hours;
And the heart, calling its affections up,
Counteth its wasted ingots. Life stands still
And settles like a fountain, and the eye

Sees clearly through its depths, and noteth all
That stirr'd its troubled waters. It is well
That Winter with the dying year should come!

PSYCHE,

BEFORE THE TRIBUNAL OF VENU S.

LIFT up thine eyes, sweet Psyche! What is she, That those soft fringes timidly should fall

Before her, and thy spiritual brow

Be dark, as if her presence were a cloud?

A loftier gift is thine than she can give—

That queen of beauty. She may mould the brow
To perfectness, and give unto the form

A beautiful proportion; she may stain
The eye with a celestial blue-the cheek
With carmine of the sunset; she may breathe
Grace into every motion, like the play
Of the least visible tissue of a cloud;
She may give all that is within her own
Bright cestus-and one silent look of thine,
Like stronger magic, will outcharm it all.

Ay, for the soul is better than its frame, The spirit than its temple. What's the brow,

Or the eye's lustre, or the step of air,

Or colour, but the beautiful links that chain The mind from its rare element? There lies

A talisman in intellect which yields

Celestial music, when the master hand

Touches it cunningly. It sleeps beneath
The outward semblance, and to common sight
Is an invisible and hidden thing;

But when the lip is faded, and the cheek
Robb'd of its daintiness, and when the form

Witches the sense no more, and human love
Falters in its idolatry, this spell

Will hold its strength unbroken, and go on
Stealing anew the affections.

Marvel not

That Love leans sadly on his bended bow.
He hath found out the loveliness of mind
And he is spoilt for beauty. So 'twill be
Ever-the glory of the human form

Is but a perishing thing, and love will droop
When its brief grace hath faded; but the mind
Perisheth not, and when the outward charm
Hath had its brief existence, it awakes,
And is the lovelier that it slept so long-

Like wells, that, by the wasting of their flow,
Have had their deeper fountains broken up.