Book Nineteenth

The winter comes,
Proclaimed by winds, and charioted by snows;
And, like an arctic voyager returned,
His white furs breathing of the Nor'land frost,
Tells of the frozen fields and mounts of ice,
For ever flaming in the boreal lights,
A-flush with dawn-like hues which bring no day.
Now the bright sun above a brighter world —
A world as white as last month's perfect moon —
Looks all abroad, and on the jewelled trees,
And icicles which taper at the eaves,
Flashes his lavish splendour. Every stream
Is deeply sealed beneath a frozen bridge,
Where glides the glittering skate, with many a whirl,
Scarring the polished floor. Afar and near
The air is full of merriment aud bells;
And the swift sleigh, along the slippery road,
Flies through the powdery mist which every gust
Blows from the buried field. Here sweep some past,
Muffled in generous skins — the bison's robe
Spread largely, trailing in the sidelong drift.
There timid Amy by her lover sits,
Her soft cheek blushing at the winter's kiss.
Anon, behold the temporary sledge —
Built in the first joy of the earliest snow —
Which gives to rustic youths a thrill of pleasure
Deeper than feels the Czar, encased in furs,
Mid music swifter and more safely whirled.
Down yonder hill, mid boyhood's ringing shouts,
An avalanche of little sleds are shot,
Streaking the air with laughter as they fly.
There the tough snow-balls, hardened 'twixt the knees,
Stream through the air, with meteor-crossing lines,
Till oft the winter coat is starred with white,
The mark of skilful aim. Here one, perchance,
Starts the small round, which gathers as it rolls,
Until the giant pile half blocks the road;
Or at the wayside reared, takes human form —
A monster bulk that, when the eve sets in,
Shall fright the traveller with its ghostly shape,
And start his steed aside. In yonder shed,
Where rings the anvil with a bell-like sound,
The Smith, while oft the share is in the coals,
Leans on the polished handle of his sledge,
And sees in visions, pleasing to his eye,
The pictures which the floating rumours give
Enticing to the West. And when the iron
Flames on the stithy, like a rising sun,
Driving the shadows into cobweb corners,
The hammer takes new impulse from his arm —
Imagination so possesses him —
And falls as 'twere the echo-waking axe,
Swung by a pioneer in boundless woods.
The Wheelwright, too, wields the curved, dangerous adze,
And shapes the axle, as it were a beam
Or rafter for the cabin, in his mind.
The Mason — for the frozen mortar now
Refuses use — beside the glowing fire,
Spreads his hard hands, and, gazing in the blaze,
Startles the woodlands with his trowel's ring.
The Cooper, at his shaving-horse astride,
Draws the swift knife, and shapes the oaken stave
As 'twere a shingle for his forest home.
The Miller hears, amid the dusty meal,
The mill-dam roaring at some unknown stream,
And rears his pulpit in the distant wild.
And in the grove the Woodman, mid his cords,
Fells the primeval trunks. And e'en the Gunner —
So powerful the infectious fever grows —
Strides, heedless of the rising flocks of quail;
And, homeward turning, hangs the weapon up,
Saving his charge for more important game.
Now comes the warmer noon. The vanes swing round
Before the south wind's soft and venturous wing.
The breeze, like childhood in the shell-bark limbs,
Shakes from the trees the rattling sleet; and now
The eaves are pouring as with summer rain.
Along the slushy roads the labouring sleigh,
Returning, cuts into the softened earth,
Grating discordant to the bells; the driver's face,
Each melting moment falling with the thaw,
Gives the long gauge of disappointed mirth.
Then follows eve. The slanting sun descends —
The snow grows crisp — the roofs withhold their rain —
And, like a proud man's mind, the icicle,
Which had been spendthrift once, gives less and less,
Until the last slow drop is held congealed,
And the cold, miser point forbids approach.

When o'er the western threshold goes the sun,
Spreading his great hand through the crimson clouds,
Shedding his benediction ere he leaves,
Then dawns the eve around the social fire;
From six to ten the nightly quiet glows,
Soothing the household. Oh, how blest are they
Who feel the calm that gilds the sacred hearth!
To them, nor spring, nor summer's voiceful time,
Hold music sweeter than is chaunted there.
From out the steaming logs the woodland sprites
Sing, as they fly, a grateful song of peace;
And crickets, full of harvest memories,
In nook and crevice warm, rehearse their lays,
Until the charmed and dreamy sense beholds
The scented hay-fields, and the nodding sheaves;
While Winter, like an uninvited guest,
Stands at the hearth forgot. What though the morn,
Through darkened chambers, pours her phantom snow,
While all the stars, which ice the arch of heaven,
Pierce the deep stillness with their splintered light; —
Or though the clouds their fleecy fulness shed,
Till farm with farm become one fenceless field,
And fill the road, and roof the running brook,
To oft mislead the wagoner and his team; —
Though 'gainst the cottage piles the shifting snow,
While at the sill the searching powder sifts; —
Far from the blaze the deepening cold withdraws,
And all grow tranquil as the tempest swells.

Thus flames the hearth where Master Ethan sits,
In dreamy trance, who, gazing at the blaze,
Beholds Elijah's mounting wheels of fire;
While, at his feet, the glowing grandchild, rapt,
Pours o'er some magic page; or, eager lists,
With largening eyes, the reverend tongue discourse
Of troublous days when War bestrode the land.
On her low chair the dozing grandam knits,
The needles moving when her eyes are closed,
Till the dropped stitch requires the ready aid
Of younger sight and hands. Still at her wheel
Olivia dreams with misty, brooding eye,
While flies the flax between her fingers warm,
And on the spindle grows the oval spool.
And there the larger wheel, whose whirring loud
Makes through the house a tempest of its own,
The matron drives; and, pacing forth and back,
Smooths the white rolls that dwindle as they go.
The easy farmer o'er the journal pours;
Or, musing, clears the western forest lands,
And sows his harvest in the ashen field;
Or drives his plough into the deep, rank soil
Of boundless prairies stretching to the sky,
Till fancy fills the crescent of his hope.
No chilling sound disturbs the pleasing dream;
In vain the winds besiege his stable-walls
Where, mid the well-filled racks, his cattle lie.
And now, responsive to the village spire,
The cock proclaims the hour, and all is well;
While shadowy Time, who stands upon the stair,
Lifts his clear voice, and points his warning hand.
Anon, the flames in ashen depths expire,
And none but crickets cheer the cooling hearth.
Peace bars the doors, Content puts out the lamp,
And Sleep fills up the residue of night.
And still, as sounds the hour-announcing spire,
The crowing cock makes answer, "all is well!"