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Even as the snow, among the living rafters
Upon the back of Italy, congeals,

Blown on and beaten by Sclavonian winds,

And then, dissolving, filters through itself, Whene'er the land, that loses shadow, breathes, Like as a taper melts before a fire,

Even such I was, without a sigh or tear,
Before the song of those who chime for ever

After the chiming of the eternal spheres ;

But, when I heard in those sweet melodies Compassion for me, more than had they said, "O wherefore, lady, dost thou thus consume him?"

The ice, that was about my heart congealed,
To air and water changed, and, in my anguish,
Through lips and eyes came gushing from my
breast.

Confusion and dismay, together mingled,
Forced such a feeble "Yes!" out of my mouth,
To understand it one had need of sight.

Even as a cross-bow breaks, when 't is discharged, Too tensely drawn the bow-string and the bow, And with less force the arrow hits the mark;

So I gave way under this heavy burden,
Gushing forth into bitter tears and sighs,

And the voice, fainting, flagged upon its passage.

SPRING.

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES D'ORLEANS.

XV. CENTURY.

GENTLE Spring!-in sunshine clad,
Well dost thou thy power display!

For Winter maketh the light heart sad,

And thou, thou makest the sad heart gay.

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He sees thee, and calls to his gloomy train,

The sleet, and the snow, and the wind, and the rain;

And they shrink away, and they flee in fear,

When thy merry step draws near.

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 ;

'T is sweet to watch for thee, alone for thee!

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