Then, too, the Old Year dieth, And the forests utter a moan, Like the voice of one who crieth "Vex not his ghost!" Then comes, with an awful roar, The storm-wind! Howl! howl! and from the forest Sweep the red leaves away! Would, the sins that thou abhorrest, O Soul! could thus decay, And be swept away! For there shall come a mightier blast, There shall be a darker day; And the stars, from heaven down-cast, Like red leaves be swept away! Kyrie, eleyson! Christe, eleyson! [These poems were written for the most part during my college life, and all of them before the age of nineteen. Some have found their way into schools, and seem to be successful. Others lead a vagabond and precarious existence in the corners of newspapers; or have changed their names and run away to seek their fortunes beyond the sea. I say, with the Bishop of Avranches on a similar occasion: "I cannot be displeased to see these children of mine, which I have neglected, and almost exposed, brought from their wanderings in lanes and alleys, and safely lodged, in order to go forth into the world together in a more decorous garb."] AN APRIL DAY. WHEN the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, "T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain. I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming-on of storms. |