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À WINTER WREATH.
MRS. WILLIAM HEY.
Talk not of Winter as a dotard old,
Grey-hair'd and feeble, palsied every limb,
"A wither'd branch his sceptre;" —'tis a whim He well may laugh to scorn. A warrior bold Girded with strength is he! Asleep-awake,
He is all energy to ear and sight;
He doth unchain the floods, and in their might Adown the hills they rush, and through the vale, With deafʼning clamour, till they reach the main.
The main ! how awful in its maddened ire ! It looks as if 'twould never know again
The gentleness which summer airs inspire.
A softness foreign to his wonted mood;
Anon he casts his hoar-frost on the wood,
A sparkling marvel, which, could Summer see,
The leafy goddess sure would envious be. But short-lived is his
very morn The winds were laid ; the skies, serene and clear, Wore April's tint; and, though the meads were shorn
Of flowers and verdure, yet the hedges glow'd
The holly, too, its blushing berries show'd
As was most meet, we added to our store;
Our presence-chamber to adorn.
But Time, who never stays his flight,
(By permission of the Author.)
THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.
DR. JOHN WOLCOTT (PETER PINDAR).
A BRACE of sinners, for no good,
Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,
And, in a fair white wig, looked wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had these sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel; In short, their toes, so gentle, to amuse, The priest had ordered peas into their shoes • A nostrum famous in old Popish times, For purifying souls when foul with crimes;
A sort of apostolic salt
That Popish priests did for its powers exalt,
different was their speed, I wot.
The other limped as if he had been shot. One saw the Virgin soon—"peccavi" cried
Had his soul whitewashed all so clever;
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
With some pain is fraught:
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
Not to shed a tear,
Better than all measures
Of delight and sound,
That in books are found,
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
From my lips would flow,