The Snow-Storm

How quietly the snow comes down,When all are fast asleep,And plays a thousand fairy pranksO'er vale and mountain steep.How cunningly it finds its wayTo every cranny small,And creeps through even the slightest chinkIn window, or in wall.

To every noteless hill it bringsA fairer, purer crestThan the rich ermine robe that decksThe haughtiest monarch's breast.To every reaching spray it givesWhate'er its hand can hold—A beauteous thing the snow is,To all, both young and old.

The waking day, through curtaining haze,Looks forth, with sore surprise,To view what changes have been wroughtSince last she shut her eyes;

And a pleasant thing it is to seeThe cottage children peepFrom out the drifts that to their eavesProlongs its rampart deep.

The patient farmer searchesHis buried lambs to find,And dig his silly poultry out,Who clamor in the wind;How sturdily he cuts his way,Though wild blasts beat him back,And caters for his waiting herdWho shiver round the stack.

Right welcome are those feathery flakesTo the ruddy urchins' eye,As down the long, smooth hill they coast,With shout and revelry;Or when the moonlight, clear and cold,Calls out their throng to play—Oh! a merry gift the snow isFor a Christmas holiday.

The city miss, who, wrapped in fur,Is lifted to the sleigh,And borne so daintily to schoolAlong the crowded way,

Feels not within her pallid cheekThe rich blood mantling warm,Like her who, laughing, shakes the snowFrom powdered tress and form.

A tasteful hand the snow hath—For on the storied paneI saw its Alpine landscapes tracedWith arch and sculptured fane,Where high o'er hoary-headed cliffsThe dizzy Simplon wound,And old cathedrals reared their towersWith Gothic tracery bound.

I think it hath a tender heart,For I marked it while it creptTo spread a sheltering mantle whereThe infant blossom slept.It doth to Earth a deed of love—Though in a wintry way;And her turf-gown will be greenerFor the snow that's fallen to-day.

"Oh! when a mother meets on high,The babe she left in its infancy,Is there not then, for all her fears,The day of woe, the watchful night,For all her sorrows, all her tears,An over-payment of delight?"

"They shook the depths of the desert-gloomWith their hymns of lofty cheer."