32 PEYTON SHORT SYMMES. [1820-30. LINES ON WINTER. FROM THE NEW TEAR'S LAY FOR THE CINCINNATI GAZETTE, 1816. The northern blast is loud and shrill, The streamlet's gurgling voice is still ! Where gabbling broods disported late, The urchin now applies the skate; And where so lately sailed the boat, Naught but the crashing ice-cakes float ! The sylvan meads present no more The verdant hues they gave before; And leafless, hoar, and rugged, now. How bleakly waves the forest bough ! E'en the plumed warblers of the wild, Whose notes our sultry hours beguiled, No longer give the melting strain, But seek their wint'ry haunts again. The fainting sun, above, displays His feeble warmth and glimmering rays ; — And in a toinding-sheet of snow, All nature seems to sleep below ! And yet, tho' winter may appear Thus gloomy, and devoid of cheer ; — Tho' comfort may be thought to flow But coldly o'er a waste of snow ; — Still may the hearth where friends combine, And bend before the social shrine, Give pleasures more than half divine ! How sweet around the Christmas fire. To gaze and listen, and admire. When beauty's fairy fingers fly, And wake the harp's wild melody ! Or, as her magic voice refines Some favored minstrel's glowing lines, How sweet to find the poet's tone And feeling, heightened by her own ! — Or, closed each fascinating page Of lightsome bard, or reverend sage, — How dear with her, for hours to range In that harmonious interchange Of kind and varied converse gay, Which drives all earthly cares away! Or, changed the scene, — with what de- Hght, Through half the festive winter's night, We prize the oft repeated chance To weave with her the sprightly dance : Whose " poetry of motion " seems To realize Elysian dreams, — And shows, e'en lovelier than before, The Maid we, next to Heaven, adore ! Yet, dearer far than all that e'er Ev'n graced the merriest Christmas cheer. Is that short soul-enlivening sound Which heals the impassioned lover's wound, And gains him, — o'er each peril past. The haven of his hopes at last ! For O ! who yet untaught can guess ; — Or who, that knows, with human powers express His high-toned raptures at the favoring "Yes!" SONNET TO HEALTH. PARAPHRASED FROM DR. JOHNSON'S PROSE TRANSLATION OF aeisiogiton's greek htmn to health. Hail sovereign health ! — Heav'n's earli- est boon to earth ! With thee let all my future hours be passed ! While o'er our forms thy fairy robe is cast, Lo, sadness flies before the voice of mirth! For, all the charms that lurk in Beauty's wile. In love-encircled homes, — or mines of gold,— Deprived of thee, ai'e cheerless, dim and cold, — And, ev'n imperial splendor courts thy smile ! Nay — mid the highest forms of earthly joy, With which Celestials soften human cares. To Thee we still prefer our ai'dent pray- ers.
