POETS AND POETRY. 255 



Thy lantern but a prison-house, and thou 

 Companion too of dreary solitude. 

 To me, whether in coat of icy mail, 

 Or warm with the sweet glow of summer-time, 

 Thou art the same. Early I learned to love 

 Thy bronzed face looking seaward ; the long roll 

 Of billows lulling me to sweetest sleep; 

 To stand upon thy breezy bluff and catch 

 A glimpse of dreamy 'Sconset, and between, 

 The winding road flanked by the grazing sheep, 

 And the blue waters of Sesachacha, 

 The hermit-lodge ; and far away at sea 

 The white sails of the ships that go about 

 The world! But there 's a memory of all 

 Its inmates whose fond life in daily round 

 Of duties thankfully performed, wrought its 

 Bright tissues in my careless boyhood days ; 

 And now my manhood clasps these golden ties 

 As treasures from a mine richer than gold. 



" Asleep in winter, when the frost-king reigns; 

 It is the carnival of Nature's ghosts! 

 Their garments like the gossamer trail on, 

 While in their wake the iron men of cold 

 File down the steeps the north wind cleaves for them, 

 Binding with cruel fetters ruthlessly. 

 All day, all night, these grim besiegers work, 

 Until, at sunrise, as we venture forth, 

 Lo! we are ice-bound, but our foes are gone. 



"At this the good old man began once more: 

 1 Men stand aghast at Nature's alchemy; 

 In elemental war they are at bay; 

 To murmur is to beat against a stone 

 That will not move. If we but learn to live 

 In meek submission, noting these events, — 



