COLD. COLD is the wind as it blusters forth, And the world is cold, as it seems to me. The grave is cold as it closes o'er One who has lived in our hearts before, The stream runs cold as it hurries on The fair, frail form of some erring one, Who has learn'd, poor thing, that Humanity's cold, And heeds not her sorrows so often told. The breast as fair as the driven snow Is often, alas! just as icy too; And a smile will a coldness oft impart, Men are wont too to say, that stone is cold, They might there, if they would, their own mirror behold, For the hardest and coldest grave-yard stone Is nought to what often their bosoms own. And what is the coldest thing I'd know, Hast thou set thy affections above, 'twill be SEA SONG. We love the blue breast of the gentle deep, Where the sea birds scream, where the breezes sleep; We smile at the porpoise's fitful leap, And carol our Yo! heave oh! When the sun just tinges the snow-white spray, Promising fair for a balmy day, We troll out our Yo! heave oh! And anon over stormy depths we cross, Still our song is the Yo! heave oh! If in harbour we lie with our anchors cast, Yet we haul out our Yo! heave oh! Ay! we doat on our bonny and taut-rigged barque, We prize it as Noah might have prized his Ark, May its timbers long echo from daylight to dark, With our chorus of Yo! heave oh! ALLA PETRARCA. THE glorious sun not always gilds And scent the air with sweet perfume; And sometimes mists hang o'er the dell Always a smile is glistening there. |