II. Nor Love, nor War, nor the tumultuous swell Watching the blue smoke of the elmy grange, III. SEPTEMBER, 1815. WHILE not a leaf seems faded, while the fields, With ripening harvest prodigally fair, In brightest sunshine bask,- this nipping air, Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields Of bitter change- and bids the Flowers beware; And whispers to the silent Birds, "Prepare Against the threatening Foe your trustiest shields." For me, who under kindlier laws belong To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky, Announce a season potent to renew, Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song, And nobler cares than listless summer knew. IV. NOVEMBER 1. How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, Unswept, unstained? Nor shall the aerial Powers Dissolve that beauty - destined to endure, White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, Through all vicissitudes till genial spring Have filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers. V. COMPOSED DURING A STORM. ONE who was suffering tumult in his soul Went forth his course surrendering to the care Of the fierce wind, while mid-day lightnings prowl While trees, dim-seen, in frenzied numbers tear And shivering wolves, surprised with darkness, howl Large space, mid dreadful clouds, of purest sky, Of providential goodness ever nigh! VI. TO A SNOW-DROP. LONE Flower, hemmed in with snows and white as they, Like an unbidden guest. Though day by day, |