Oh the snow,--the bright fleecy snow!
Isn't it grand when the north breezes blow?
Isn't it bracing the ice to skim o'er,
With a jovial friend or the one you adore?
How the ice crackles, and how the skates ring,
How friends flit past you like birds on the wing.
How the gay laugh ripples through the clear air,
How bloom the roses on cheeks of the fair!
Few are the pleasures that life can bestow,
To equal the charms of the beautiful snow.
Oh, the snow,-the pitiless snow!
Cruel and cold, as the shelterless know;
Huddled in nooks on the mud or the flags,
Wrapp'd in a few scanty, fluttering rags.
Gently it rests on the roof and the spire,
And filling the streets with its slush and the mire,
Freezing the life out of poor, starving souls,
Wild whirling and drifting as Boreas howls.
Hard is their lot who have no where to go,
To shelter from storm and the merciless snow.
Oh, the snow,-the treacherous snow!
Up in a garret on pallet laid low!
Dying of hunger,--oh, sad is her fate;--
No food in the cupboard,--no fire in the grate.
A widening streak of frost crystals are shed,
Through the window's broke pane on the comfortless bed,
And the child that she clasps to her chill milkless breast,
Has ended its troubles, and gone to its rest.
Husbandless,--childless, and friendless.--Go slow,--
She sleeps with her babe, and their shroud is the snow.
Oh, the snow, the health-giving snow!
Setting the cheeks of the children aglow,
Father and mother,--well fed and well clad,
Join in the frolic like young lass and lad.
Little they dream of the suffering and woe,
Of those shivering outcasts with nowhere to go.
Then they read from their paper with quivering breath,
Accounts of poor wand'rers found frozen to death,
And their hearts with pure pity perchance overflow,
But it vanishes soon, like the beautiful snow.
Hide not thy Face.
Hide not Thy face,--and though the road
Be dark and long and rough,
With cheerfulness I'll bear my load,
Thy smile will be enough.
All other helps I can forego,
If with Faith's eye I trace,
Through earthly clouds of grief and woe,
The presence of Thy face.
Hide not Thy face;--weak, worn and
Oppressed with doubt and fear;
Still will I utter no complaint,--
Content if Thou art near.
Thy loving hand my steps shall guide,
And set my doubts at rest;
In loving trust, whate'er betide,
For Thou, Lord, knowest best.
Hide not Thy face;--the tempter's wiles
Around my feet are spread;
The world's applause,-the wanton's smiles,
Beset the path I tread.
Alone, too weak to fight the host
Of Pleasure's vicious train,
'Tis then I need Thy succour most;--
Let me not seek in vain.
Hide not Thy face, but day by day,
Shine out more clearly bright;
Until this narrow, thorny way,
Shall end in Death's dark night.
Then freed from all the taints of sin,
Through Thine abundant Grace;
The crown of righteousness I win,
And see Thee face to face.
In my Garden of Roses.
Oh! Come to me, darling! My Sweet!
Here where the sunlight reposes;
Pink petals lie thick at my feet,
Here in my garden of rose's.
Oh! come to my bower! My Queen!
Sweet with the breath of the flow'rs;
Shaded with curtains of green;--
Here let us dream through the hours.
The sky is unfleck'd overhead,--
Trees languish in Sol's fervid ray,--
The earth to the heavens is wed,
And robin is piping his lay.
Lost is their sweetness upon me;
Vainly their beauties displaying;--
Cheerless I wander, and lonely,--
Hoping and longing and praying.
Oh! come to me, Queenliest flower!
Reign in my garden of roses;
Humbly we bow to thy power,
Loving the sway thou imposes.
Hark! 'Tis her tinkling footfall!
Robin desist from thy singing;
Mar not those sounds that enthrall,--
Faint as a fairy bell's ringing.
She cometh! My lily! my rose!
Queenlier,--purer, and sweeter!
Haste, every blossom that blows,
Pour out your perfumes to greet her!
Panting she rests in my arms;--
Now is my bower enchanted!
Essence of all this world's charms;--
My heart has won all that it wanted.
The Match Girl.
Merrily rang out the midnight bells,
Glad tidings of joy for all;
As crouched a little shiv'ring child,
Close by the churchyard wall.
The snow and sleet were pitiless,
The wind played with her rags,
She beat her bare, half frozen feet
Upon the heartless flags;
A tattered shawl she tightly held
With one hand, round her breast;
Whilst icicles shone in her hair,
Like gems in gold impressed,
But on her pale, wan cheeks, the tears
That fell too fast to freeze,
Rolled down, as soft she murmured,
"Do buy my matches, please."
Wee, weak, inheritor of want!
She heard the Christmas chimes,
Perchance, her fancy wrought out dreams,
Of by-gone, better times,
The days before her mother died,
When she was warmly clad;
When food was plenty, and her heart
From morn to night was glad.
Her father now is lying sick,
She soon may be alone;
He cannot use his spade and pick,
As once he could have done.
The workhouse door stands open wide,
But should he enter there,
They'd tear his darling from his side
And place her anywhere.
They'd call it charitable help,
Though breaking both their hearts;
But then, when in adversity
Folks have to bear the smarts.
Some carriages go rolling by,
Gay laughter greets her ears;
She envies not their better lot,
She only sheds more tears,
And now and then a passing step,
Will cause the tears to cease;
As fainter, fainter, comes the plaint,
"Do buy my matches, please."
Darker the sky, colder the wind,--
The bells are silent now;--
She creeps still closer to the wall,
And sinks upon the snow.
The sound of revelry no more
Disturbs her weary ear,
Sleep conquers cold and pain and grief;--
Oblivion shuts out fear.
The snow drifts to the churchyard wall,
The graves with white are spread;
But those gray walls do not enclose
All of the near-by dead.
The wind has ta'en the snowflakes,
And gently as it might,
Has spread a shroud o'er one more lost
And hid it from the sight.
I would not wake her if I could,
'Twas well for her she died;
Her spirit floated out upon
The bells of Christmastide,
She breathed no prayer, nor thought of Heaven,--
Her last faint words were these;--
As time merged in eternity,
"Do buy my matches, please."
But surely angels would be there,
To shield her from all harm;
And in Christ's loving bosom,
She could nestle and get warm.
The wifeless, childless, stricken man,
Lies moaning in his pain--
"Come, let me bless thee e'er I die!"
But she never came again.
De Profundis.
Down in the deeps of dark despair and woe;--
Of Death expectant;--Hope I put aside;
Counting the heartbeats, slowly, yet more slow,--
Marking the lazy ebb of life's last tide.
Sweet Resignation, with her opiate breath,
Spread a light veil, oblivious, o'er the past,
And all unwilling handmaid to remorseless Death,
Shut out the pain of life's great scene,--the last.
When, lo! from out the mist a slender form
Took shape and forward pressed and two bright eyes
Shone as two stars that gleam athwart the storm,
Grandly serene, amid the cloud-fleck'd skies.
"Not yet," she said, "there are some sands to run,
Ere he has reached life's limit, and no grain
Shall lie unused. Then, when his fight is done,
Pronounce the verdict,--be it loss or gain."
I felt her right hand lightly smooth my brow,
Her left hand on my heart; and a sweet thrill
Swept all the strings of being, and the flow
Of a full harmony aroused the dormant will.
Death slunk away, sweet Resignation paled,
And Hope's bright star made all the future bright;
The clouds were rent;--a woman's love prevailed,
And dragged a sinking soul once more to love and light.
Angels there are who walk this troublous world,
Whose wings are hid beneath poor mortal clay,
Lest their effulgence to man's eyes unfurled,
Might scare the timid-hearted ones away.
The whispered word, the smile, the gentle tone,
Love-prompted from a woman's heaving breast,
Enforce her claim to make the world her throne,
Beyond compare,--of all God's gifts the best.
Nettie.
Nettie, Nettie! oh, she's pretty!
With her wreath of golden curls;
None compare with charming Nettie,
She's the prettiest of girls.
Not her face alone is sweetest,--
Nor her eyes the bluest blue,
But her figure is the neatest
Of all forms I ever knew.
But she has a fault,--the greatest
That a pretty girl could have;
When she's looking the sedatist,
And pretending to be grave,--
You discover, 'spite of hiding,
What I feel constrained to tell;
That she knows she is a beauty,--
Knows it,--knows it,--aye, too well.
May be when the bloom has vanished;
Which we know in time it will;
And her foolish fancies banished,
May be, she'll be lovely still.
For though Time may put his finger,
On her dainty-fashioned face;
There will still some beauty linger,
Round her form so full of grace.
And her heart,--the priceless treasure,
Which so many long to win,
Still shall prove a fount of pleasure,
To the love that enters in.
Pity 'tis that fairest blossoms
Must in time fall from the tree;
Pity 'tis that snow-white bosoms
Must yield up their symmetry.
Brightest eyes will lose their love-light,
Fairest cheeks grow pale and gray;--
Golden locks will lose their sunlight,
And the loveliest limbs decay.
But whilst life is left we hunger
For a taste of earthly bliss;
But the man need seek no longer,
Who can call sweet Nettie his.
The Dean's Brother.
A little lad, but thinly clad,
All day had roamed the street;
With stitled groans and aching bones,
He beg'd for bread to eat.
The wind blew shrill from o'er the hili,
And shook his scanty rags;
Whilst cold and sleet benumbed his feet,
As plodding o'er the flags.
The night drew on with thick'ning gloom,--
He hailed each passer by,
For help to save, but nought they gave,--
Then he sat down to cry.
It was a noble portico,
'Neath which the beggar stept,
And none would guess, one in distress
There shiv'ring sat and wept.
But soon the door was open thrown,--
The Dean, a goodly man;
Who lived within, had heard a moan,
And came the cause to scan.
"Ah, little boy, what want you here,
On such a bitter night?
Run home at once, you little dunce,
Or you'll be frozen quite."
The boy looked at his cheery face,
Yet hid his own in dread;
"I meant no harm, the place was warm,
And I am begging bread;
"And if you can a morsel spare,
I'll thank you, oh! so much,
For all day long I've begged and sung,
And never had a touch."
"Step in," then said the kindly man,
"And stand here in the hall,
You shall have bread, poor starving child,
I promise you you shall."
And off he went, and soon returned
With a thin, tempting slice,
And little Jemmy dapt his hands
And cried, "Oh, Sir, that's nice!"
"And what's your name, come tell me that?"
"My name is Jimmy Pool."
"And do you always beg all day
Instead of going to school?
"And can you read, and can you write?"
Poor Jimmy shook his head,
"No, sir, I have to beg all day,
At night I go to bed.
"My mother lays me on the floor,
Upon a little rug;
And I ne'er think of nothing more,
When I'm so warm and snug.
"Sometimes I wake, and when I do,
Unless it's almost day,
She's always there, upon her chair,
Working the night away.
"It isn't much that she can make,--
Sometimes I think she'd die,
But for her little Jimmy's sake,--
There's only her and I."
"And do you ever pray, my boy?"
"No, sir, I never tried,
I never heard a praying word
Since my poor Daddy died."
"Then let me teach you, little boy,
Just come now, let me see,--
I know you'll manage if you try,--
Now say it after me.
"Our Father,"--"Our Father,"--"right,"
"That art in heaven," "go on!"
Jimmy repeated every word,
Until the prayer was done.
Then turning up his hazel eyes,
Which questioning light shone through,
He said, "that prayer sounds very nice,--
Is He your Father too?"
"Yes, He is mine as well as yours,
And Lord of all you see."
"Far as I know, if that be so,
My brother you must be."
"Yes we are brethren, every one,
All equal in His sight."
"Well, I will _try_ to think so, sir,
But I can't believe it _quite_.
"It seems so strange that you should be
Akin to such as me,
For you are rich, and great, and grand
And I'm so poor you see."
"But it is true, my little lad,
And if to Him you pray,
He'll make your little heart feel glad,--
He'll turn you not away."
"Well, if that's so, I'll learn to pray,
I'll take your kind advice,--
But if you are my brother,
Give me just one thicker slice.
"And if He's Father of us all,--
Now, as I'm going home,
From your big share perhaps you'll spare
Your widowed sister some?"
The Dean's face wore a puzzled look,
And then a look of joy;
Then said, "'tis you the teacher are,
I am the scholar, boy."
That night the widow's eyes were wet,
But they were tears of joy,--
'When she beheld the load of things
Brought by her little boy.
And Jimmy danced upon the flags,
And cried, "there's few have seen,
And ever thought that in these rags,
Stands brother to a Dean."