Part 12

Brave Winter and I shall ever agree, Though a stern and frowning gaffer is he. I like to hear him, with hail and rain, Come tapping against the window-pane; I like to see him come marching forth, Begirt with the icicle-gems of the north; But I like him best, when he comes bedight In his velvet robes of stainless white.

A cheer for the snow,—the drifting snow, Smoother and purer than Beauty’s brow! The creature of thought scarce likes to tread On the delicate carpet daintily spread. With feathery wreaths the forest is bound, And the hills are with glittering diamonds crowned. ’Tis the fairest scene we can have below, Sing a welcome, then, to the drifting snow.

The urchins gaze with eloquent eye, To see the flakes go dancing by. In the blinding storm how happy are they, To welcome, the first deep, snowy day! Shouting and pelting, what bliss to fall, Half-smothered, beneath the well-aimed ball!

Men of fourscore, did ye ever know Such sport as ye had in the drifting snow? Ye rejoice in it still, and love to see The ermine mantle on tower and tree. ’Tis the fairest scene we can have below, Hurrah! then hurrah! for the drifting snow!

Eliza Cook.

A Winter Sketch.

’Tis winter, yet there is no sound Along the air, Of winds upon their battle-ground; But gently there The snow is falling,—all around, How fair,—how fair!

The jocund fields would masquerade; Fantastic scene! Tree, shrub and lawn and lonely glade Have cast their green, And joined the revel, all arrayed So white and clean.

E’en the old posts, that hold the bars, And the old gate, Forgetful of their wintry wars And age sedate, High-capped and plumed, like white hussars, Stand there in state.

The drifts are hanging by the sill, The eaves, the door; The haystack has become a hill; All covered o’er The wagon loaded for the mill The eve before.

Maria brings the water-pail, But where’s the well? Like magic of a fairy tale, Most strange to tell, All vanished, curb and crank and rail! How deep it fell!

The wood-pile, too, is playing hide; The axe, the log, The kennel of that friend so tried,— Theold watch-dog,— The grindstone standing by its side, All now incog.

The bustling cock looks out aghast From his high shed; No spot to scratch him a repast;— Up curves his head, Starts the dull hamlet with a blast, And back to bed.

Old drowsy dobbin, at the call, Amazed, awakes; Out from the window of his stall A view he takes; While thick and faster seem to fall The silent flakes.

The barn-yard gentry, musing, chime Their morning moan; Like Memnon’s music of old time,— That voice of stone! So warbled they, and so sublime Their solemn tone.

Good Ruth has called the younker-folk To dress below; Full welcome was the word she spoke; Down, down they go, The cottage quietude is broke,— The snow!—the snow!

Now rises from around the fire A pleasant strain; Ye giddy sons of mirth, retire! And ye profane! A hymn to the Eternal Sire Goes up again.

The patriarchal Book divine, Upon the knee, Opes where the gems of Judah shine, (Sweet minstrelsy!) How soars each heart with each fair line, O God, to Thee!

Around the altar low they bend, Devout in prayer; As snows upon the roof descend, So angels there Come down that household to defend With gentle care.

While mounts the eddying smoke amain From many a hearth, And all the landscape rings again With rustic mirth, So gladsome seems to every swain The snowy earth.

Hoyt.

Gloom.

Hast thou seen the treasures of the hail, which I have reserved against the time of trouble?—Job 38:22.

Not in his splendors, only, nor his beneficence, does God manifest himself to men. “The Lord Most High is terrible.” His holiness is for ever arrayed in frowns and rebuke against wrong. It is pleasant to dwell on his love, to speak of him as the Father of all his creatures, full of pity and condescension for the most erring. The heart that responds to his with reciprocal affection, penitent for sins committed, trustful in his promises of pardon through a Redeemer, and constrained by filial devotion to grateful service and worship, may rest in the sweet contemplation of his goodness. But let it not be forgotten at the same time that he is holy as well as good, “merciful and gracious, long-suffering, and abundant in goodness and truth, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, and that he will by no means clear the guilty.”

It is fitting that this part, also, of the Divine character should be illustrated in his works. Therefore, he hath appointed the earthquake, the lightning, and the tempest, to be, with the sunshine and the gentle breezes, representatives of himself. Even the snow, so soft and beautiful, he makes a messenger of gloom. The dark, fierce winter storm sweeps over the earth as the very spirit of desolation. The tiny flakes, charged with the mission which he gives them, fly forth in numbers infinite to buffet, to bewilder, to overwhelm whatever is exposed to them. Who can resist these “treasures” of the storm when let loose in their strength? “Who can stand before his cold?”

As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce All Winter drives along the darkened air, In his own loose, revolving fields the swain Disastered stands;——and wanders on From hill to dale, still more and more astray, Impatient, flouncing through the drifted heaps, Stung with the thoughts of home,—the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor forth In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul! What black despair, what horror, fills his mind! When for the dusky spot which fancy feigned His tufted cottage rising through the snow, He meets the roughness of the middle waste, Far from the track and blest abode of man! While round him Night resistless closes fast, And every tempest, howling o’er his head, Renders the savage wilderness more wild. Nor wife nor children more shall he behold, Nor friends nor sacred home. On every nerve The deadly Winter seizes; shuts up sense; And o’er his inmost vitals creeping cold, Lays him along the snows a stiffened corse, Stretched out, and bleaching in the northern blast.

Thomson.

Winter is a fitting image of decay and death; and the cold, white, winding-sheet that shrouds the blighted flowers, of the robe that is spread over the still form of our heart’s crushed and faded blossoms. True, the flowers shall spring again, and our treasures will be restored to us in the land of eternal summer. Nevertheless, the dreary hour of separation is not joyous, but grievous. Our hopes are withered, our hearts are chilled; disappointment, absence, present loss, distress and torture us. All is gloom, desolation, and anguish. The sun may shine, but his beams are cold and glassy. No pleasures spring about our path. Our life is buried with our darlings in the icy bosom of nature. O Winter, bleak, dismal, wasting, inexorable Winter! Hasten thy footsteps, and bring us to the bright expectant Spring!