Enough!—the feeling has its way, As thou hast had;—’tis not the lay Of vain complaint—no idle play Of fancy, dreaming care: A mocking bitter, like thine own, Wells up from fountains, deep and lone, From core and spirit, soul and bone— I’ve felt thee every where! Thou’st mocked my hope and dashed my joy, With keen rebuke and cold alloy; The father, son, the man, the boy, All, all! have felt the rod! Perchance not all thy work in vain, In softening soul, subduing brain, If suffering, I submit to pain— That minister of God! * * * * * A WINTER’S NIGHT IN THE WILDERNESS. BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. ’Twas night; and hoary Winter walked abroad, Howling like hungry wolves amid the wild; Moon there was none—and every star seemed awed, And shrinking, trembled like a frighted child! Through all the woods the dreary snow was piled, Or like a shroud it lay, the ridgéd fold Showing the shape beneath—above, beguiled By Sorrow, swayed the pines; through wood and wold The wild winds to and fro went sighing unconsoled. A cabin stood upon the wooded slope— From many a crevice fitful firelight streamed, Making the blackness denser, like the hope Which from the settler’s broken spirit gleamed, Only to show the dark!—then, where it beamed, Died, leaving all its ashes on his heart! And now he gazed into the fire and dreamed Of home, of native mountains wrapt apart, The village and afar the large and steepled mart. He saw the haze lay o’er the landscape green, Where, like a happy thought, the streamlet flowed The fields of waving grass and groves between. Afar the white and winding turnpike glowed— The peopled coach rolled down the dusty road. The shining cattle through the pasture grazed; And all the air seemed trembling with a load Of melody, by birds and children raised: But now, a voice—a groan—he started—stood amazed. Hark! was’t the wind which eddied round the place, Or mournful trees by wailing tempests tossed? Or was’t a moan from that pale, wasted face Which from the bed gleamed like a sleeping ghost? Or Hunger worrying Slumber from his post Amid the little ones? He only heard The heave of breasts which unknown dreams had crossed, Such dreams as stir the lips but make no word, And heard his own heart beat like an o’er-wearied bird!