WINTER.

OUR mother Earth is lying down to sleep,

The autumn leaves are gathered to her breast,

Her snowy breast, while through the forests sweep

The wintry winds, that lull her soul to rest.

Long, long ago the swallows skimmed away,

The robin's song is echoing on the ear,

Now the red-breasted pilgrim tunes his lay

In orange groves that blossom all the year.

We saw thee coming, - spell-bound, could not speak

Of Autumn's brightness fading into gloom,

Like him who watches, on the loved one's cheek,

The crimson flush prophetic of the tomb.

O gentle mother! when from winter's sleep

Thou shalt awake and ope thy radiant eyes,

Tell us what dreams disturbed thy slumbers deep

Under the darkness of these dreary skies.

A. L. H.