Snow

The blessed morn is come again;
The early gray
Taps at the slumberer's window-pane,
And seems to say
« Break, break from the enchanter's chain,
Away, — away!"

'Tis winter, yet there is no sound.
Along the air,
Of winds upon their battle-ground,
But gently there,
The snow is falling, — all around
How fair — how fair!

The jocund fields would masquerade;
Fantastic scene!
Tree, shrub, and lawn, and lonely glade
Have cast their green,
And join'd the revel, all array'd
So white and clean.

E'en the old posts, that hold the bars
And the old gate,
Forgetful of their wintry wars
And age sedate,
High-capp'd, and plumed, like white hussars,
Stand there in state.

The drifts are hanging by the sill,
The eaves, the door;
The hay-stack has become a hill;
All cover'd o'er
The wagon, loaded for the mill
The eve before.

Maria brings the water-pail, —
But where's the well!
Like magic of a fairy tale,
Most strange to tell,
All vanish'd, — curb, and crank, and rail; —
How deep it fell!

The wood-pile too is playing hide;
The axe — the log —
The kennel of that friend so tried —
(The old watch-dog,)
The grindstone standing by its side,
All now incog.

The hustling cock looks out aghast
From his high shed;
No spot to scratch him a repast,
Up curves his head,
Starts the dull hamlet with a blast,
And back to bed.

The bam-yard gentry, musing, chime
Their morning moan;
Like Memnon's music of old time —
That voice of stone!
So marbled they — and so sublime
Their solemn tone.

Good Ruth has called the younker folk
To dress below;
Full welcome was the word she spoke,
Down, down they go,
The cottage quietude is broke, —
The snow! — the snow!

Now rises from around the fire
A pleasant strain;
Ye giddy sons of mirth, retire!
And ye profane! —
A hymn to the Eternal Sire
Goes up again.

The patriarchal Book divine,
Upon the knee,
Opes where the gems of Judah shine, —
(Sweet minstrelsie !)
How soars each heart with each fair line,
O God! to Thee!

Around the altar low they bend,
Devout in prayer;
As snows upon the roof descend,
So angels there
Guard o'er that household, to defend
With gentle care.

Now sings the kettle o'er the blaze;
The buckwheat heaps;
Rare Mocha, worth an Arab's praise,
Sweet Susan steeps;
The old round stand her nod obeys,
And out it leaps.

Unerring presages declare
The banquet near;
Soon, busy appetites are there;
And disappear
The glories of the ample fare,
With thanks sincere.

Now let the busy day begin: —
Out rolls the churn;
Forth hastes the farm-boy, and brings in
The brush to burn; —
Sweep, shovel, scour, sew, knit, and spin,
Till nicrht's return.

To delve his threshing John must hie;
His sturdy shoe
Can all the subtle damp defy:
How wades he through?
While dainty milkmaids, slow and shy,
His track pursue.

Each to the hour's allotted care:
To shell the corn;
The broken harness to repair;
The sleigh t' adorn:
So cheerful — tranquil — snowy — fair
The Winter Morn.