Part 8

There’s beauty all around our paths, If but our watchful eyes Can trace it, mid familiar things, And through their lowly guise. We may find it in the winter boughs, As they cross the cold blue sky, While soft on icy pool and stream Their penciled shadows lie; When we look upon their tracery, By the fairy frost-work bound, Whence the flitting red-breast shakes a shower Of crystals to the ground.

Hemans.

The Beautiful Snow.

Oh the snow! the beautiful snow! Filling the sky and the earth below,— Over the house-tops, over the street, Over the heads of the people you meet. Dancing, Flirting, Skimming along, Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong; Flying to kiss a fair lady’s cheek, Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak; Beautiful snow from the heavens above, Pure as an angel, and fickle as love!

Oh the snow! the beautiful snow! How the flakes gather and laugh as they go! Whirling about in its maddening fun; It plays in its glee with every one. Chasing, Laughing, Hurrying by, It lights up the face, and sparkles the eye; And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound, Snap at the crystals that eddy around: The town is alive, and its heart in a glow, To welcome the coming of beautiful snow.

How the wild crowd goes swaying along, Hailing each other with humor and song! How the gay sledges, like meteors flash by, Bright for the moment, then lost to the eye! Ringing, Swinging, Dashing they go, Over the crust of the beautiful snow,— Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by. To be trampled and tracked by thousands of feet. Till it blends with the filth in the horrible street.

“Once I was pure as the snow—but I fell; Fell like the snow-flake, from heaven—to hell; Fell, to be trampled as filth of the street, Fell to be scoffed, derided, and beat, Pleading, Cursing, Dreading to die, Selling my soul to whomever would buy; Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, Hating the living, and fearing the dead: Merciful God! have I fallen so low? And yet I was once like this beautiful snow!

“Once I was fair as this beautiful snow, With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow; Once I was loved for my innocent grace, Flattered and sought for the charm of my face. Father, Mother, Sister, all, God and myself I have lost by the fall. The veriest wretch that goes shivering by Will take a wide sweep lest I venture too nigh; For of all that is on or about me, I know, There is nothing that’s pure but the beautiful snow.

“How strange it should be that this beautiful snow Should fall on a sinner with no where to go! How strange it would be, when the night comes again, If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain! Fainting, Freezing, Dying alone, Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan To be heard in the crash of the crazy town, Gone wild in their joy at the snow’s coming down, To lie and to die in my terrible woe, With a bed and a shroud in the beautiful snow!”

Helpless and foul as the trampled snow, Sinner, despair not! Christ stoopeth low, To rescue the soul that is lost in its sin, And raise it to life and enjoyment again. Groaning, Bleeding, Dying, for thee, The Crucified hung on the accursed tree!— His accents of mercy fall soft on thine ear. “Is there mercy for me? Will he heed my weak prayer? O God! in the stream that for sinners did flow, Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow!”

Selected.

Weakness.

The stream of brooks ... wherein the Snow is hid.—Job 6:15.

Lightness and weakness are symbolized by the snow. You can not draw near one of these delicate crystals without danger of destroying it. Your breath will melt it; nay, even the radiation of warmth from your person will, ere you are aware, crumble down the whole fairy structure so elaborately wrought. It floats down, the sport of every breath of air. It can not ruffle the feather of a bird by its falling. It perishes if the sun looks at it. Yet God takes care of it,—numbers it among his treasures. It is not overlooked by him amid all its fellows. When it dies in a tear, God bottles that tear and keeps it still in his treasure-house. Fear not, ye of little faith; ye are of more value than mountains of snow-flakes. Does the Almighty create and delight in it, preserve and guide this little creature, and will he not take care of you, and delight to make you beautiful in holiness, and serviceable in his kingdom? Look up when it storms. The sun is on the other side. God guides the cloud, the wind, the rain, and the snow, and numbers the hairs of your head.

Kirk.

* * * * *

Do a little good at a time, and all the time. The Himalaya is ordered to put on a new robe. How is it to be done? Will a mighty vestment drop from heaven and encircle the mighty ranges of her peaks? No; millions of little maids of honor will come down, and each one contribute some little thread to weave the splendid robe. And by every one doing the little committed to it, the giant mountain stands robed in its celestial garment. You organize a Sunday school among neglected children, and go every Sunday, like a little snow-flake, to add present labor to past. Keep on; that is the way the Himalaya gets its robe.

No good is lost. Stop not to count your converts, to weigh the results of your labors, but keep on like the gentle snow, flake after flake, without noise or parade. Parent, teacher, preacher, patriot, work on!

Ib.

* * * * *

We see the instability of snow, and the rapidity with which it disappears when played upon by the sunbeams, or exposed to the effects of a humid, mild air, and frequent showers. Frequently the whole aspect of nature, in a few hours, assumes a new appearance, and scarcely a trace of snow is left behind. By these sudden changes we may justly be reminded of the inconstancy and vanity of all human affairs. Fleeting as the snow beneath the sunbeams are all the enjoyments and gratifications which do not arise from the influence of religion, the exercise of the mind, and the feelings of the heart; if we cultivate these, we shall be enabled to enjoy a portion of that felicity which endureth for ever,—the sure reward of virtue and a well-spent life.

Sturm.

* * * * *

Soon another silent force will come forth, and a noiseless battle will ensue, in which this now innumerable army of snow-flakes shall be itself vanquished. A rain-drop is stronger than a snow-flake. One by one, the armed drops will dissolve the crystals and let forth the spirit imprisoned in them. Descending quickly into the earth, the drops shall search the roots, and give their breasts to myriad mouths. The bud shall open its eye, the leaf shall lift up its head, the grass shall wave its spear, and the forests hang out their banners! How significant is this silent, gradual, but irresistible power of rain and snow of moral truth in this world! “For, as the rain cometh down, and the snow from heaven, and returneth not thither, but watereth the earth, and maketh it bring forth and bud that it may give seed to the sower and bread to the eater; so shall my word be that goeth forth out of my mouth; it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it.”

Beecher.

Nothing Lost.

Where is the snow? ’Tis not long ago It covered the earth with a vail of white; We heard not its footsteps soft and light, Yet there it was in the morning bright; Now it hath vanished away from sight. Not a trace remains In fields or lanes.

Where is the frost? It is gone and lost— The forms of beauty last night it made; With pictures rare were windows arrayed; “Be silent!” it said; the brook obeyed; Yet silence and pictures all did fade. At the smile of the sun, All was undone.