Tells of countless sunny hours,

Long days, and solid banks of flowers;

Of gulfs of sweetness without bound
In Indian wildernesses found;

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.

Aught unsavory or unclean

Hath my insect never seen;

But violets and bilberry bells,

Maple-sap, and daffodels,

Grass with green flag half-mast high,

Succory to match the sky,

Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,

Clover, catchfly, adder's tongue,
And brier roses, dwelt among ;
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he passed.

Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher!

Seeing only what is fair,

Sipping only what is sweet,

Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. When the fierce north-western blast Cools sea and land so far and fast, Thou already slumberest deep;

Woe and want thou canst outsleep; Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous.

BERRYING.

'MAY be true what I had heard,

Earth's a howling wilderness,

Truculent with fraud and force,'
Said I, strolling through the pastures,

And along the river-side.

Caught among the blackberry vines,

Feeding on the Ethiops sweet,

Pleasant fancies overtook me.

I said, 'What influence me preferred,
Elect, to dreams thus beautiful?'

The vines replied, 'And didst thou deem

No wisdom to our berries went?'

THE SNOW-STORM.

ANNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air

Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.

The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed

In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come see the north wind's masonry.

Out of an unseen quarry evermore

Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer

Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work

So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work.

And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.