Proclaimed by winds, and charioted by snows;
And, like an Arctic voyager returned,
His white furs breathing of the Norland frost,
Tells of the frozen fields and mounts of ice
Forever flaming in the boreal lights,
Aflush 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 splendor. 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 and bells;
And the swift sleigh, along the slippery road,
Flies through the powdery mist which every gust
Blows from the buried field. Here sweeps one 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 sun, 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 rumors 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 boughs,
Shakes from the trees the rattling sleet; and now
The eaves are pouring as with summer rain.
Along the slushy roads the laboring 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 chanted 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 moon,
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,
Pores 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!"
APPROACHES now the time to Christians dear,
Hallowed with grateful memories; the hour
Which startled Herod on his throne, and drew
The star-led Magi through the manger door,
Where lay the infant Saviour of a world,
More terrible to Eden's serpent vile-
Which now, affrighted, backward shrunk, chagrined,
Coiling upon himself-than was the boy,
The cradled Hercules, unto the snake
He strangled in his grasp. This is the eve,
Welcome to all, by childhood chiefly hailed,
Bringing that day the angels ushered in
O'er favored Bethlehem; and every house
Is waked with joy, no pagan palace knew.
Now to the hearth the Christmas log is rolled,
Huge, unassailed by severing wedge and maul:
Not the light pine, consuming in a day,
Or loud explosive chestnut whose report
Oft calls the housewife with her hurried broom;
But hickory, solid, or, more common, oak,
Whose knotted grain defies the splitting axe;
Which, once arranged, behind the andirons glows,
Devouring many a forelog, daily brought,
Till New Year rolls another in its place.
Behold where through the starry twilight air,
Across the field, with crispy footfalls, walk
Olivia and Amy, bearing each,
From Baldwin's pantry, something for the dame
Who in the lonely Oakland shadow dwells;
While Master Ethan, in his ancient coat,
Whose long skirts sweep the snow, strides on before,
Bearing the fowl-no plumper crowds the roost—
To cheer the morrow's feast. Beside her door,
Already, the rough wain has tracked the snow,
And shed the winter cord; and on the sill
The miller's frequent sack, to-day, was left.
Oh, ye who sit in warm, penurious ease,
Did ye but know the recompense which flows,
Richer than gold, unto the heart that gives,
Your very selfishness would master self,
Till, on the coldest night of all the year,
There should not be a hearth-stone unablaze,
Or in a pantry want of wherewithal
To bless the humble board, however poor!
The door approached, the comfortable flame Gleams through unlisted crannies and the small Four panes which make a window; while above The cheerful smoke, shot through with frequent sparks, Mounts on the still cold air. A hasty glance They cast, and set their burthens down, and turn To leave; when at the door, with startling voice, The dame arrests them, crying, "Fly not so! Stay yet awhile; for, knowing who ye are, I wot there are some thanks for me to pay. At least, fair damsels, let me pass my hand A moment o'er your own; and, in the dark, Perchance, I'll tell you something not amiss. Oh, here is joy!" she cries-the while she draws Her bony finger o'er Olivia's palm
"So soon to come it needs no prophecy!"
Then, taking Amy's shrinking hand in hers,
With low, confiding voice she speaks :-" When times
Have changed, and bring to you the need of friends,
Beneath this humble roof one may you find.
Here is a shelter where the tainted breath,
The bad world loves to breathe, cannot invade :
Cold slander points not at a couch like mine.
This have the outcasts for their comfort; while
That low and horrid shed must yet be built,
Which hath not space enough for Peace to enter."
Thus having heard, they turn beyond the gate,
And leave her murmuring to herself; and soon
The farm-house takes them to its glowing arms.
How swell the young hearts round the evening board,
While spreads conjecture of the coming gifts!
And soon the little stockings at the jamb
Are hung, convenient, where the promised Saint,
Through sooty entrance, shall descend unseen.
Oh, thou brave, generous spirit, whose sure round
Comes yearly, like the snow-Saint Nicholas,
Or Santa Claus-or, in these sylvan vales,
"Kriss Kringle" called-of all the blessed saints,
Which, as the legends say, revisit earth,
I have chief faith in thee! For thou dost come,
Noiseless and unobtrusive, to thy shrines,
The Christmas hearths; and to thy votaries givest,
And takest naught, save, at the early morn,
The countless thanks, from youthful hearts of joy,
Given in shouts profuse. In what strange form
Thou comest is not known; but fancy deems
Thy breast is swept with patriarchal beard,
Thy silver locks encased in downy cap,
Thy ample mantle of the softest furs,
Native to Arctic climes; thy starry car-
Laden at Nuremberg's toy-crowded gables-
A sleigh with silver runners, which through clouds
Of snow unfallen, or the frosty dark,
Flies drawn by spirits of a Lapland team,
With shadowy antlers broad, whose many bells
Are only heard in slumber's dreamy air.
Thus wilt thou come to-night; and, with the dawn,
Whether thou stayest to hear, or fliest afar,
To shade thy head a twelvemonth in thy realm-
Withdrawn, unknown-the happiest laughing voice,
Sincerest of the year, shall swell with praise
And gratitude to thy mysterious name.
Along the valley winds the coachman's horn,
Announcing his approach; and while his steeds
Are led to stable, steaming as they go,
And fresher are brought out, one traveller
Alights, and straightway, favored by the moon,
Takes the near path across, through field and grove,
And on the hill, which gives the vale to sight,
Stands for a moment, breathless with his joy,
His shadow, like his fancy, streaming far
And swiftly in advance, along the snow.
Full twice his wonted height the figure seems
Above his shade; while all his stately frame
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