ded to no system, modifying his opinions as new light streamed in, but carrying into practical life the high and noble lessons given in his speculative utterances. His fame is unsurpassed in American literature, and is likely to go on increasing.

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, naught 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.

To those who go, and those who come, Good-bye, proud world, I'm going home.

I go to seek my own hearth-stone,
Bosomed in yon green hills alone;
A secret lodge in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned,
Where arches green the livelong day
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,

And evil men have never trod

A spot that is sacred to thought and God.

Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I mock at the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines
Where the evening-star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and pride of mau,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet?

SURSUM CORDA.

Seek not the spirit if it hide
Inexorable to thy zeal:
Baby, do not whine and chide:
Art thou not also real?

Why shouldst thou stoop to poor excuse?
Turn on the accuser roundly; say,
"Here am I, here will I remain
Forever to myself soothfast;

Go thou, sweet Heaven, or at thy pleasure stay!
Already Heaven with thee its lot has cast,
For only it can absolutely deal."

GOOD-BYE, PROUD WORLD!

Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home; Thou art not my friend; I am not thine: Too long through weary crowds I roam;A river ark on the ocean brine,

Too long I am tossed like the driven foam; But now, proud world, I'm going home.

Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face;
To Grandeur with his wise grimace:
To upstart Wealth's averted eye;
To supple office, low and high;

To crowded halls, to court and street,

To frozen hearts, and hasting feet,

TO THE HUMBLEBEE.

Fine humblebee! fine humblebee!
Where thou art is clime for me:
Let them sail for Porto Rique,
Far-off heats through seas to seek,—
I will follow thee alone,
Thou animated torrid zone!
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer,
Let me chase thy waving lines,
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over Cubs and vines.

t

Flower-bells,

Honeyed cells,-
These the tents

Which he frequents.

HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE

CONCORD MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1836.

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,

And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone,
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare

To die, or leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee.

Mary Howitt.

Mary Howitt, whose maiden name was Botham, was of Quaker descent, and born in Uttoxeter, England, in 1804. In 1823 she was married to William Howitt, and the same year they published in conjunction "The Forest Minstrel," a series of poems. But William, though the author of some clever verses, is known chiefly for his prose writings. Mary has shown genuine poetical feeling and ability, especially in her verses for children. Her observation of nature is accurate and intense; and a true enthusiasm gives vitality to her descriptions. Her ballads are among the best. That of "New-year's-eve" is founded on a prose story by the Danish author, Hans Christian Andersen.

NEW-YEAR'S-EVE.

Little Gretchen, little Gretchen,

Wanders up and down the street, The snow is on her yellow hair, The frost is at her feet. The rows of long dark houses

Without look cold and damp, By the struggling of the moonbeam, By the flicker of the lamp. The clouds ride fast as horses,

The wind is from the north, But no one cares for Gretchen, And no one looketh forth.

Within those dark, damp houses

Are merry faces bright, And happy hearts are watching out The old year's latest night. The board is spread with plenty, Where the smiling kindred meet, But the frost is on the pavement, And the beggars in the street.

With the little box of matches
She could not sell all day,
And the thin, thin tattered mantle,
The wind blows every way,
She clingeth to the railing,
She shivers in the gloom:
There are parents sitting snugly
By fire-light in the room,-
And groups of busy children-
Withdrawing just the tips
Of rosy fingers pressed in vain

Against their burning lips,-
With grave and earnest faces,
Are whispering each other,
Of presents for the new year, made
For father or for mother.

But no one talks to Gretchen,

And no one hears her speak; No breath of little whisperers Comes warmly to her cheek; No little arms are round her,

Ah me! that there should be With so much happiness on earth, So much of misery! Sure they of many blessings,

Should scatter blessings round, As laden boughs in Autumn fling Their ripe fruits to the ground. And the best love man can offer To the God of love, be sure, Is kindness to his little ones, And bounty to his poor.

Little Gretchen, little Gretchen,
Goes coldly on her way;
There's no one looketh out at her,
There's no one bids her stay.
Her home is cold and desolate,

No smile, no food, no fire,
But children clamorous for bread,
And an impatient sire.
So she sits down in an angle,

Where two great houses meet,

Colder it grows and colder,

But she does not feel it now,
For the pressure at her heart,
And the weight upon her brow.
But she struck one little match

On the wall so cold and bare,
That she might look around her,
And see if He were there.
The single match has kindled;
And by the light it threw,
It seemed to little Gretchen,

The wall was rent in two.
And she could see the room within,
The room all warm and bright,
With the fire-glow red and dusky,
And the tapers all alight.

And there were kindred gathered,
Round the table richly spread,
With heaps of goodly viands,

Red wine, and pleasant bread.
She could smell the fragrant savor,
She could bear what they did say,
Then all was darkness once again,
The match had burned away.
She struck another hastily,

And now she seemed to see, Within the same warm chamber,

A glorious Christmas-tree: The branches were all laden

With such things as children prize, Bright gift for boy and maiden,

She saw them with her eyes.

And she almost seemed to touch them, And to join the welcome shout; When darkness fell around her,

For the little match was out.

On the city wrapped in vapor,

On the spot where Gretchen lies. The night was wild and stormy,

The morn is cold and gray, And good church bells are ringing Christ's circumcision day; And holy men are praying In many a holy place; And little children's angels

Sing songs before his face.

In her scant and tattered garment,
With her back against the wall,
She sitteth cold and rigid,

She answers not their call.
They have lifted her up fearfully,
They shuddered as they said,
"It was a bitter, bitter night;
The child is frozen dead."
The angels sang their greeting,

For one more redeemed from sin;
Men said, "It was a bitter night,-

Would no one let her in?"

And they shuddered as they spoke of her,
And sighed; they could not see
How much of happiness there was,
With so much misery!

THE FAIRIES OF CALDON-LOW. "And where have you been, my Mary, And where have you been from me?" "I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low, The midsummer night to see.”

"And what did you see, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Low ?"

"I saw the glad sunshine come down, And I saw the merry winds blow."

"And what did you hear, my Mary, All up on the Caldon-Hill ?”

"I heard the drops of the water form, And the ears of the green corn fill."

"Oh, tell me all, my Mary,

All, all that ever you know; For you must have seen the fairies Last night on the Caldon-Low."

"Then take me on your knee, mother, And listen mother of mine:

A hundred fairies danced last night, And the harpers they were nine.

"And the harp-strings rang right merrily,
To their dancing feet so small;
But oh, the sound of their talking
Was merrier far thau all!"

"And what were the words, my Mary, That you heard the fairies say?" "I'll tell you all, my mother, But let me have my way.

"And some they played with the water, And rolled it down the hill:

'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily turn The poor old miller's mill;

"For there has been no water
Ever since the first of May,
And a busy man shall the miller be
By the dawning of the day.

"O, the miller, how he will laugh

When he sees the mill-dam rise! The jolly old miller, how he will laugh, Till the tears fill both of his eyes!'

"And some, they seized the little winds That sounded over the hill,

And each put a horn unto his mouth And blew it sharp and shrill :

"And there,' they said, 'the merry winds go, Away from every horn,

And they shall clear the mildew dank
From the blind old widow's corn.

"O, the poor blind old widow!

Though she has been poor so long, She'll be blithe enough when the mildew's gone, And the corn stands tall and strong!

"And some they brought the brown linseed, And flung it down from the Low: 'And this,' said they, 'by the sunrise, In the weaver's croft shall grow.

"O, the poor lame weaver!

How he will laugh outright When he sees his dwindling flax-field All full of flowers by night!