The Frost looked forth one still, clear night

I am feeble, pale and weary, And my wings are nearly furled; I have caused a scene so dreary, I am glad to quit the world! With bitterness I'm thinking On the evil I have done,

Wisdom, Power and Goodness meet In the bounteous field of wheat.

Alone I walked on the ocean strand, A pearly shell was in my hand; I stooped, and wrote upon the sand My name, the year, the day. As onward from the sport I passed, One lingering look behind I cast,

Come out — pretty Rose-Bud, — my lone, timid one! Come forth from thy green leaves, and peep at the sun! For little he does, in these dull autumn hours, At height'ning of beauty, or laughing with flowers.

How pleasant came thy rushing, silver Tweed! Upon my ear when, after roaming long In southern plains, I've reach'd thy lovely bank! How bright, renowned Sark, thy little stream, Like ray of column'd light chasing a shower, Would cross my …

Samuel Warren, though able, yet vainest of men, Could he guide with discretion his tongue and his pen, His course would be clear for—"Ten Thousand a Year," But limited else to a brief—"Now and Then."