But knowst thou what?' Tis better far

To harness quick the chestnut mare.

And o'er the morning s snow our steed,

Full eager, with impatience hot,

Shall, panting, bear us, dearest, quick;

Across the empty fields we'll scud

Through thickest forests none could pass,

Along the shore so dear to me.

THE NOISY JOYS OF THOUGHTLESS YEARS ARE SPENT.

The noisy joys of thoughtless years are spent;

And all, like head confused with drink, is dulled.

But, as with wine, the woe of days gone by

With force more strong than newer woe torments.

A dreary path before me lies. Fresh toils

To drown me in a sea of trouble threat.

And yet, dear friends of youth. I would not die!

I wish to live, that I may muse and toil;

I feel that joy shall mingle with my woe,

Relieve my care, and heal my doubtings sad.

Once more, I'll drink the cup of harmony,

And drown my thoughts in flood of soothing tears;

And, haply, in the setting hour of life

Love's farewell smile 'shall lighten up the dark.

A STUDY.

And now, my chubby critic, fat burly cynic,

For ever mocking and deriding my sad muse,

Draw near, and take a seat, I pray, close beside me,

And let us come to terms with this accursed spleen.

But why that frown? Is it so hard to leave our woes,

A moment to forget ourselves in joyous song?

And now, admire the view! That sorry row of huts;

Behind, a level long descent of blackish earth,

Above, one layer thick of gray, unbroken clouds.

But where the cornfields gay or where the shady woods?

And where the river? In the court there, by the fence,