THE FROST. BY H. F. GOULD. THE Frost looked forth one still, clear night, In silence I'll take my way. I will not go on like that blustering train,— Then he flew to the mountain, and powdered its crest; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he drest In diamond beads; and over the breast Of the quivering lake, he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear He went to the windows of those, who slept, Most beautiful things; there were flowers and trees; There were cities with temples and towers; and these All pictured in silver sheen! But he did one thing that was hardly fair— I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking!" GREECE. BY J. G. BROOK S. LAND of the brave! where lie inurned The shrouded forms of mortal clay, In whom the fire of valour burned, And blazed upon the battle's fray; Land where the gallant Spartan few Bled at Thermopyla of yore, When death his purple garment threw On Hellas' consecrated shore! Land of the Muse! within thy bowers Her soul-entrancing echoes rung, While on their course the rapid hours Paused at the melody she sung; Till every grove and every hill, And every stream that flowed along, From morn to night repeated still The winning harmony of song. Land of dead heroes! living slaves! Shall glory gild thy clime no more? Her banner float above thy waves To break the fetter and the chain; No! coward souls! the light which shone With helmet shattered, spear in rust; Where sleeps the spirit, that of old Dashed down to earth the Persian plume; When the loud chant of triumph told, How fatal was the despot's doom? The bold three hundred-where are they, Who died on battle's gory breast? Tyrants have trampled on the clay, Where death has hushed them into rest. Yet, Ida, yet upon thy hill, A glory shines of ages fled; GREECE. And fame her light is pouring still, Greece! yet awake thee from thy trance; In might, in majesty revealed. In vain, in vain the hero calls; In vain he sounds the trumpet loud; His banner totters; see, it falls In ruin, freedom's battle shroud : Thy children have no soul to dare Such deeds as glorified their sires; Their valour's but a meteor's glare, Which gleams a moment and expires. Lost land! where Genius made his reign, * Ypsilanti. 109 |