How hard he breathes ! over the snow
I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro :
The cricket chirps : the light burns low :
'T is nearly twelve o'clock.

Shake hands, before you die.
Old year, we'll dearly rue for you:
What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before





eyes : tie

His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone.
Close his


his chin : Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.
There's a new foot on the floor, my friend,
And a new face at the door, my friend,
A new face at the door.

To J. S.


THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows

More softly round the open wold, And gently comes the world to those

That are cast in gentle mould.


And me this knowledge bolder made,

Or else I had not dared to flow In these words toward


and invade Even with a verse your holy woe.


'Tis strange that those we lean on most,

Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, Fall into shadow, soonest lost :

Those we love first are taken first.


God gives us love. Something to love

He lends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve

Falls off, and love is left alone.


This is the curse of time. Alas!

In grief I am not all unlearned; Once through mine own doors Death did pass;

One went, who never hath returned.


He will not smile - not speak to me
Once more.


his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he

Without whose life I had not been.


Your loss is rarer; for this star

Rose with you through a little arc Of heaven, nor having wandered far,

Shot on the sudden into dark.


I knew


: his mute dust I honor, and his living worth : A man more pure and bold and just

Was never born into the earth.


I have not looked upon you nigh,

Since that dear soul hath fallen asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I:

I will not tell you not to weep.

And though my own eyes fill with dew,

Drawn from the spirit through the brain, I will not even preach to you,

“Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain."


Let Grief be her own mistress still.

She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will

Be done - to weep or not to weep.

I will not say “God's ordinance

Of Death is blown in every wind;" For that is not a common chance

That takes away a noble mind.

His memory long will live alone

In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun,

And dwells in heaven half the night.


Vain solace! Memory standing near

Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seemed distant, and a tear

Dropt on the letters as I wrote.


I wrote I know not what. In truth,

How should I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth ?

Yet something I did wish to say:

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