« AnkstesnisTęsti »
written at a small distance from my house,
and sent by my little boy to the
person to whom they are
It is the first mild day of March :
The red-breast sings from the tall larch
There is a blessing in the air,
Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the
My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine)
Edward will come with you, and pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress, And bring no book, for this one day We'll give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulate
Our living Calendar:
We from to-day, my friend, will date The opening of the year.
Love, now an universal birth,
From heart to heart is stealing,
From earth to man, from man to earth,
—It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more
Some silent laws our hearts may make,
We for the year to come may take
And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above;
We'll frame the measure of our souls, They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my sister! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress, And bring no book; for this one day We'll give to idleness.
THE OLD HUNTSMAN,
with an incident in which he was
In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
A long blue livery-coat has he,
That's fair behind, and fair before;
Yet, meet him where you will, you see At once that he is poor.
Full five and twenty years he lived
A running huntsman merry;
And, though he has but one eye left,
No man like him the horn could sound,
To say the least, four counties round
His master's dead, and no one now
Dwells in the hall of Ivor
Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead ;
He is the sole survivor.