WOODS IN WINTER. 163 WOODS IN WINTER. WHEN Winter winds are piercing chill, That overbrows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods, Where, twisted round the barren oak, Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas! how changed from the fair scene, When birds sang out their mellow lay, But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods! within your crowd; And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear I listen, and it cheers me long. THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. 165 THE FIRST FIRST SNOW-FALL. THE snow had begun in the gloaming, Had been heaping field and highway Every pine, and fir, and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, From sheds new-roofed with Carrara The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down ; I stood and watched by the window I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn, As did robins the babes in the wood. Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?" Again I looked at the snow-fall, That arched o'er our first great sorrow I remember'd the gradual patience Which fell from that cloud like snow, And again to the child I whispered, "The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall! " Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; LOWELL. 167 RESIGNATION. RESIGNATION. THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there! There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, But has one vacant chair! The air is full of farewells to the dying, And mournings for the dead; The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, Will not be comforted! Let us be patient! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise; But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise. We see but dimly through the mists and vapours, Amid these earthly damps: What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers, May be Heaven's distant lamps. There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath Is but a suburb of the life Elysian, Whose portal we call death. |