Part 5

PURITY

Her Nazarites were purer than Snow.—Lamentations 4:7.

Purity is one of the most striking characteristics of the new-fallen snow. “It is,” says Sturm, “a result of the congregated reflections of light from the innumerable small faces of the crystals. The same effect is produced when ice is crushed to fragments. It is extremely light and thin, consequently full of pores, and these contain air; it is farther composed of parts more or less compact, and such a substance does not admit the sun’s rays to pass, neither does it absorb them; on the contrary, it reflects them very powerfully, and this gives it the dazzling white appearance we see in it.”

You shall look out upon a gray, frozen earth, and a gray, chilling sky. The trees stretch forth naked branches imploringly. The air pinches and pierces you; a homesick desolation clasps around your shivering, shrinking frame, and then God works a miracle. The windows of heaven are opened, and there comes forth a blessing. The gray sky unlocks her treasures, and softness and whiteness and warmth and beauty float gently down upon the evil and the good. Through all the long night, while you sleep, the work goes noiselessly on. Earth puts off her earthliness; and when the morning comes, she stands before you in the white robes of a saint. The sun hallows her with baptismal touch, and she is glorified. There is no longer on her pure brow any thing common or unclean. The Lord God hath wrapped her about with light as with a garment. His divine charity hath covered the multitude of her sins, and there is no scar or stain, no “mark of her shame,” or “seal of her sorrow.” The far-off hills swell their white purity against the pure blue of the heaven. The sheeted splendor of the fields sparkles back a thousand suns for one. The trees lose their nakedness and misery and desolation, and every slenderest twig is clothed upon with glory.

Wheat-fields, corn-fields, and meadow-lands are all alike wrapped by its dazzling mantle. Here and there some straggling weeds refuse to be hidden, and stand up in unsightly contrast with the pure white surface around them. The stone walls, entirely concealed, only look like a low ridge; but the snow can not contrive to cover up the rail-fences, but only heap up a bank by their side. The woods, with their bare trunks and intermingling branches, cast a shadow, notwithstanding the absence of leaves, and we are glad again to come into the warm sunshine. Evergreens do not brighten a winter landscape. They seem as if they were mourning in sympathy with their spoiled brethren of the forest; and look dusky and almost black, like somber sentinels along the road. The snow sparkles with its crystals. What purity! “Whiter than snow!” The longing of the soul for purity, the faith in the cleansing power that is able thus to purify, are breathed in the prayer, “Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow!”

The deep, deep snow offers no temptations to wander in the fields, or step away from the beaten track. One well-defined road, from which the driver reluctantly turns aside on meeting another sleigh, has alone broken the crust on its surface, and determines its depth. Foot-passengers step out into the deep snow, and wait till the sleigh passes, but are glad at once to step back again. How well would it be if Christians thus dreaded to step aside from the narrow way that leadeth unto life, and were as ready to return to its secure footing,—the path beaten by blessed foot-prints!

Beecher.

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What comes from heaven is pure; but the tendency is to soil it, and that which keeps nearest heaven most escapes the pollution of earth. At the foot of the Alps you find the roaring, muddy stream, the clay-stained snow. But on the summit of Mt. Blanc is a pure robe of celestial white, never stained, only sometimes covered with a roseate gauze to salute the setting sun.

Kirk.

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The snow is very beautiful when it has first fallen. Many of our poets have had recourse to the snow-flake for some of their finest poetical images; nor do I know a fitter emblem of innocence and purity than a falling flake, ere it receives the stain of earth. There are but few things with which we can compare snow for purity. The Psalmist says, “He giveth the snow like wool; he scattereth the hoar frost like ashes.” “Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.” Milton has made beautiful allusion to it in his hymn on the Nativity, where he says,—

“It was the winter mild, While the heaven-born Child All meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies; Nature in her awe to Him Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize. It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.

“Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly vail of maiden white to throw, Confounded that her Maker’s eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities.”

T. Miller.

The Snow-Wreath.

Oh, what is so pure, so soft, or so bright, As a wreath of the new-fallen snow! It seems as if brushed from the garments of light, To fall on us mortals below.

But here is no home for thee, child of the sky; Thy purity here must decay, Thy being be transient, thy beauty all die, Nor a trace of thy loveliness stay.

Go, go to the mountain-top,—there make thy nest; ’Tis nearer thy own native home; And live on its peak like a silvery crest, Where nothing to soil thee can come.

This emblem—how apt of a virtuous mind Made pure by the Spirit divine! Like a snow-wreath ’tis marred in a world so unkind, Fit only in heaven to shine.

J. B. Waterbury.

The First Snow.

To-day has been a pleasant day, Despite the cold and snow: A Sabbath stillness filled the air, And pictures slumbered every where, Around, above, below.

We woke at dawn and saw the trees Before our windows white; Their limbs were clad with snow-like bark, Save that the under sides were dark, Like bars against the light.

The fence was white around the house, The lamp before the door; The porch was glazed with pearlèd sleet, Great drifts lay in the silent street, The street was seen no more!

Long trenches had been roughly dug, And giant foot-prints made; But few were out; the streets were bare; I saw but one pale wanderer there, And he was like a shade!

I seemed to walk another world, Where all was still and blest; The cloudless sky, the stainless snows,— It was a vision of repose, A dream of heavenly rest,—

A dream the holy night completes; For now the moon hath come, I stand in heaven with folded wings, A free and happy soul that sings When all things else are dumb!