Bryant's The Snow Shower.

Stand here by my side and turn, I pray,
On the lake below thy gentle eyes;
The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray,
And dark and silent the water lies;
And out of that frozen mist the snow
In wavering flakes begins to flow;
Flake after flake

They sink in the dark and silent lake.

See how in a living swarm they come

From the chambers beyond that misty veil; Some hover awhile in air, and some

Rush prone from the sky like summer hail.

All, dropping swiftly or settling slow,
Meet, and are still in the depths below;
Flake after flake

Dissolved in the dark and silent lake.

Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud,
Come floating downward in airy play,
Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd
That whiten by night the Milky Way;
There broader and burlier masses fall;
The sullen water buries them all-

Flake after flake

All drowned in the dark and silent lake.

And some, as on tender wings they glide
From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray,
Are joined in their fall, and, side by side,

Come clinging along their unsteady way;
As friend with friend, or husband with wife
Makes hand in hand the passage of life;
Each mated flake

Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake.

Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste

Stream down the snows, till the air is white,

As, myriads by myriads madly chased,

They fling themselves from their shadowy height.

The fair, frail creatures of middle sky,

What speed they make, with their grave so nigh,

Flake after flake,

To lie in the dark and silent lake!

I see in thy gentle eyes a tear;

They turn to me in sorrowful thought; Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, Who were for a time and now are not; Like these fair children of cloud and frost That glisten a moment and then are lost, Flake after flake

All lost in the dark and silent lake.

Yet look again, for the clouds divide;
A gleam of blue on the water lies;
And, far away, on the mountain-side,

A sunbeam falls from the opening skies.
But the hurrying host that flew between
The cloud and the water no more is seen;
Flake after flake

At rest in the dark and silent lake.

June.

I gazed upon the glorious sky
And the green mountains round;
And thought that, when I came to lie
Within the silent ground,

"Twere pleasant, that in flowery June,
When brooks send up a cheerful tune,
And groves a joyous sound,

The sexton's hand, my grave to make,
The rich, green mountain turf should break.

A cell within the frozen mould,
A coffin borne through sleet,
And icy clouds above it rolled,
While fierce the tempests beat—
Away! I will not think of these-
Blue be the sky, and soft the breeze,
Earth green beneath the feet,

And be the damp mould gently pressed
Into my narrow place of rest.

There, through the long, long summer hours,

The golden light should lie,

And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by.

The oriole should build and tell

His love-tale close beside my cell;

The idle butterfly

Should rest him there, and there be heard

The housewife bee and humming-bird.

And what if cheerful shouts at noon
Come, from the village sent,
Or songs of maids, beneath the moon
With fairy laughter blent?
And what if, in the evening light,
Betrothed lovers walk in sight
Of my low monument?

I would the lovely scene around
Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

I know, I know I should not see

The season's glorious show,

Nor would its brightness shine for me,

Nor its wild music flow;

But if, around my place of sleep,
The friends I love should come to weep,
They might not haste to go.

Soft airs and song and light and bloom
Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

These to their softened hearts should bear
The thought of what has been,
And speak of one who cannot share

The gladness of the scene;
Whose part, in all the pomp that fills
The circuit of the summer hills,

Is that his grave is green;

And deeply would their hearts rejoice
To hear again his living voice.

Robert of Lincoln.

Merrily swinging on briar and weed,
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain side or mead,

Robert of Lincoln is telling his name:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Snug and safe is that nest of ours,

Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln is gaily drest,

Wearing a bright black wedding-coat;
White are his shoulders and white his crest,
Hear him call in his merry note:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Look, what a nice new coat is mine,

Sure there was never a bird so fine.

Chee, chee, chee.

Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,

Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,

Passing at home a patient life,

Broods in the grass while her husband sings: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Brood, kind creature; you need not fear

Thieves and robbers while I am here.

Chee, chee, chee.

Modest and shy as a nun is she;

One weak chirp is her only note. Braggart and prince of braggarts is he, Pouring boasts from his little throat: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,

Spink, spank, spink;

Never was I afraid of man;

Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can.

Chee, chee, chee.