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Winter giveth the fields and the trees, so old,
Their beards of icicles and snow;

And the rain, it raineth so fast and cold,

We must cower over the embers low;
And, snugly housed from the wind and weather,
Mope like birds that are changing feather.
But the storm retires, and the sky grows clear,
When thy merry step draws near.

Winter maketh the sun in the gloomy sky
Wrap him round with a mantle of cloud;
But, Heaven be praised, thy step is nigh;

Thou tearest away the mournful shroud,
And the earth looks bright, and Winter surly,
Who has toiled for nought both late and early,
Is banished afar by the new-born year,
When thy merry step draws near.

THE CHILD ASLEEP.

FROM THE FRENCH.

SWEET babe! true portrait of thy father's face,
Sleep on the bosom that thy lips have pressed!
Sleep, little one; and closely, gently place
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's breast.

Upon that tender eye, my little friend,

Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to me! I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend;'Tis sweet to watch for thee,-alone for thee!

His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his brow;
His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams of harm.
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow,

Would you not say he slept on Death's cold arm?

Awake, my boy !—I tremble with affright!

Awake, and chase this fatal thought!-Unclose
Thine eye but for one moment on the light!
Even at the price of thine, give me repose!

Sweet error! he but slept,-I breathe again;—
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep beguile !
Oh! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain,
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile?

DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHANSON DE ROLAND.

THE archbishop, whom God loved in high degree,
Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free;
And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan,
And a faint shudder through his members ran.
Upon the battle-field his knee was bent;
Brave Roland saw, and to his succour went,
Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced;
And tore the shining haubert from his breast,
Then raising in his arms the man of God,

Gently he laid him on the verdant sod.

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Rest, Sire," he cried,-" for rest thy suffering needs."
The priest replied, "Think but of warlike deeds!
The field is ours; well may we boast this strife!
But death steals on,-there is no hope of life;

In paradise, where the almoners live again,

There are our couches spread, there shall we rest from pain."

Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel I, alas!

That thrice he swooned upon the thick green grass.

When he revived, with a loud voice cried he,
"O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie!
Why lingers death to lay me in my grave?
Beloved France! how have the good and brave

Been torn from thee, and left thee weak and poor!" Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o'er

His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow,

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‘My gentle friend!—what parting full of woe!
Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see ;-
Whate'er my fate, Christ's benison on thee!
Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath,
The Hebrew prophets from the second death."
Then to the paladins, whom well he knew,
He went, and one by one unaided drew

To Turpin's side, well skilled in ghostly lore ;—
No heart had he to smile,-but, weeping sore,
He blessed them in God's name, with faith that he
Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity.
The archbishop, then,-on whom God's benison rest!—
Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast ;-
His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore,
And many a wound his swollen visage bore.
Slow beats his heart,-his panting bosom heaves,—
Death comes apace,—no hope of cure relieves.
Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed
That God, who for our sins was mortal made,—
Born of the Virgin,-scorned and crucified,-
In paradise would place him by his side.
Then Turpin died in service of Charlon,
In battle great and eke great orison;
'Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion ;-
God grant to him his holy benison !

RONDEL.

FROM THE FRENCH OF JEAN FROISSART.

LOVE, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? Nought see I fixed or sure in thee!

I do not know thee,-nor what deeds are thine: Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? Nought see I fixed or sure in thee!

Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine?

Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me:

Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? Nought see I permanent or sure in thee!

FRIAR LUBIN.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CLEMENT MAROT.

To gallop off to town post-haste,
So oft, the times I cannot tell;
To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced,—
Friar Lubin will do it well.
But a sober life to lead,

To honour virtue, and pursue it,
That's a pious, Christian deed,-
Friar Lubin cannot do it.

To mingle, with a knowing smile,
The goods of others with his own,
And leave you without cross or pile,
Friar Lubin stands alone.

To say 'tis yours is all in vain,
If once he lays his finger to it;
For as to giving back again,
Friar Lubin cannot do it.

With flattering words and gentle tone,
To woo and win some guileless maid;
Cunning pander need you none,—

Friar Lubin knows the trade.

Loud preacheth he sobriety,

But as for water, doth eschew it;
Your dog may drink it,-but not he;
Friar Lubin cannot do it.

ENVOY.

When an evil deed's to do,

Friar Lubin is stout and true;

Glimmers a ray of goodness through it, Friar Lubin cannot do it.

THE GRAVE.

FROM THE ANGLO-SAXON.

FOR thee was a house built
Ere thou wast born.

For thee was a mould meant
Ere thou of mother camest.
But it is not made ready,
Not its depth measured,
Nor is it seen

How long it shall be.

Now I bring thee

Where thou shalt be;

Now I shall measure thee,
And the mould afterwards.

Thy house is not
Highly timbered,
It is unhigh and low;
When thou art therein,
The heel-ways are low,
The side-ways unhigh.
The roof is built
Thy breast full nigh,

So thou shalt in mould

Dwell full cold,

Dimly and dark.

Doorless is that house,

And dark it is within;

There thou art fast detained,

And Death hath the key.

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