The wind goes down and the storm is o'er,--
'Tis the hour of midnight, past;
The old trees writhe and bend no more
In the whirl of the rushing blast.
The silent moon with her peaceful light
Looks down on the hills with snow all white,
And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump,
The blasted pine and the ghostly stump,
Afar on the plain are cast.
But cold and dead by the hidden log
Are they who came from the town,--
The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog,
And his beautiful Morgan brown,--
In the wide snow-desert, far and grand,
With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand,--
The dog with his nose on his master's feet,
And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet,
Where she lay when she floundered down.
_Charles Gamage Eastman._
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