Part 2
“And then thou shalt have thy choice, to be Restored in the lily that decks the lea, In the jessamine bloom, the anemone, Or aught of thy spotless whiteness;— To melt, and be cast, in a glittering bead, With the pearls that the night scatters over the mead, In the cup where the bee and the fire-fly feed, Regaining thy dazzling brightness.
“I’ll let thee awake from thy transient sleep, When Viola’s mild blue eye shall weep, In a tremulous tear; or, a diamond, leap In a drop from the unlocked fountain; Or, leaving the valley, the meadow, and heath, The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath, Go up, and be wove in the silvery wreath Encircling the brow of the mountain.
“Or, wouldst thou return to a home in the skies, To shine in the Iris, I’ll let thee arise, And appear in the many and glorious dyes A pencil of sunbeams is blending; But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth, I’ll give thee a new and a vernal birth, When thou shalt recover thy primal worth, And never regret descending.”
“Then I will drop!” said the trusting flake; “But bear it in mind that the choice I make, Is not in the flowers nor the dew to wake, Nor the mist that shall pass with morning; For, things of thyself, they will die with thee; But those that are lent from on high, like me, Must rise,—and will live, from the dust set free, To the regions above returning.
“And, if true to thy word and just thou art, Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart, Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let me depart, And return to my native heaven. For I would be placed in the beautiful bow, From time to time in thy sight to glow, So thou mayst remember the Flake of Snow, By the promise that God has given!”
H. F. Gould.
_Mabel’s Wonder._
“There must be flowers in heaven!” Little Mabel wondering cried, As she gazed through the frosted window,— “Ah yes, ah yes,” I replied.
“And every single blossom Is white as white can be!” “Perhaps;”—I carelessly answered, “When we get there, we shall see.”
“And oh, they have so many! Why, every tree must be full!” “Of course,—Spring lasts for ever In heaven,” I said, so dull.
“Do the angels get tired of flowers?” Asked she, with a gentle sigh; “For see, oh see, they are throwing Whole handfuls down from the sky!”
I sprang to the frosted window, To see what the child could mean:— The ground was covered with snow-flakes, And the air was full between.
I kissed my innocent darling, And speedily set her right; While I prayed that her heart might ever Be pure as the snow and as light.
H. E. B.
_It Snows!_
It snows! it snows! from out the sky The feathered flakes, how fast they fly! Like little birds, that don’t know why, They’re on the chase from place to place, While neither can another trace. It snows! it snows! a merry play Is o’er us on this heavy day.
Like dancers in an airy hall That has not room to hold them all, While some keep up, and others fall, The atoms shift, then thick and swift They drive along to form the drift That, weaving up, so dazzling white, Is like a rising wall of light.
But now the wind comes whistling loud, To snatch and waft it as a cloud, Or giant phantom in a shroud. It spreads; it curls; it mounts and whirls; At length a mighty wing unfurls; And then, away! but where, none knows, Or ever will. It snows! it snows!
To-morrow will the storm be done; Then out will come the golden sun, And we shall see upon the run Before his beams, in sparkling streams, What now a curtain o’er him seems. And thus with life it ever goes— ’Tis shade and shine!—It snows! it snows!
H. F. Gould.
PURITY
_Her Nazarites were purer than Snow.—Lamentations 4:7._
Purity is one of the most striking characteristics of the new-fallen snow. “It is,” says Sturm, “a result of the congregated reflections of light from the innumerable small faces of the crystals. The same effect is produced when ice is crushed to fragments. It is extremely light and thin, consequently full of pores, and these contain air; it is farther composed of parts more or less compact, and such a substance does not admit the sun’s rays to pass, neither does it absorb them; on the contrary, it reflects them very powerfully, and this gives it the dazzling white appearance we see in it.”
You shall look out upon a gray, frozen earth, and a gray, chilling sky. The trees stretch forth naked branches imploringly. The air pinches and pierces you; a homesick desolation clasps around your shivering, shrinking frame, and then God works a miracle. The windows of heaven are opened, and there comes forth a blessing. The gray sky unlocks her treasures, and softness and whiteness and warmth and beauty float gently down upon the evil and the good. Through all the long night, while you sleep, the work goes noiselessly on. Earth puts off her earthliness; and when the morning comes, she stands before you in the white robes of a saint. The sun hallows her with baptismal touch, and she is glorified. There is no longer on her pure brow any thing common or unclean. The Lord God hath wrapped her about with light as with a garment. His divine charity hath covered the multitude of her sins, and there is no scar or stain, no “mark of her shame,” or “seal of her sorrow.” The far-off hills swell their white purity against the pure blue of the heaven. The sheeted splendor of the fields sparkles back a thousand suns for one. The trees lose their nakedness and misery and desolation, and every slenderest twig is clothed upon with glory.
Wheat-fields, corn-fields, and meadow-lands are all alike wrapped by its dazzling mantle. Here and there some straggling weeds refuse to be hidden, and stand up in unsightly contrast with the pure white surface around them. The stone walls, entirely concealed, only look like a low ridge; but the snow can not contrive to cover up the rail-fences, but only heap up a bank by their side. The woods, with their bare trunks and intermingling branches, cast a shadow, notwithstanding the absence of leaves, and we are glad again to come into the warm sunshine. Evergreens do not brighten a winter landscape. They seem as if they were mourning in sympathy with their spoiled brethren of the forest; and look dusky and almost black, like somber sentinels along the road. The snow sparkles with its crystals. What purity! “Whiter than snow!” The longing of the soul for purity, the faith in the cleansing power that is able thus to purify, are breathed in the prayer, “Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow!”
The deep, deep snow offers no temptations to wander in the fields, or step away from the beaten track. One well-defined road, from which the driver reluctantly turns aside on meeting another sleigh, has alone broken the crust on its surface, and determines its depth. Foot-passengers step out into the deep snow, and wait till the sleigh passes, but are glad at once to step back again. How well would it be if Christians thus dreaded to step aside from the narrow way that leadeth unto life, and were as ready to return to its secure footing,—the path beaten by blessed foot-prints!
Beecher.
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What comes from heaven is pure; but the tendency is to soil it, and that which keeps nearest heaven most escapes the pollution of earth. At the foot of the Alps you find the roaring, muddy stream, the clay-stained snow. But on the summit of Mt. Blanc is a pure robe of celestial white, never stained, only sometimes covered with a roseate gauze to salute the setting sun.
Kirk.
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The snow is very beautiful when it has first fallen. Many of our poets have had recourse to the snow-flake for some of their finest poetical images; nor do I know a fitter emblem of innocence and purity than a falling flake, ere it receives the stain of earth. There are but few things with which we can compare snow for purity. The Psalmist says, “He giveth the snow like wool; he scattereth the hoar frost like ashes.” “Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.” Milton has made beautiful allusion to it in his hymn on the Nativity, where he says,—
“It was the winter mild, While the heaven-born Child All meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies; Nature in her awe to Him Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize. It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.
“Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly vail of maiden white to throw, Confounded that her Maker’s eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities.”
T. Miller.
_The Snow-Wreath._
Oh, what is so pure, so soft, or so bright, As a wreath of the new-fallen snow! It seems as if brushed from the garments of light, To fall on us mortals below.
But here is no home for thee, child of the sky; Thy purity here must decay, Thy being be transient, thy beauty all die, Nor a trace of thy loveliness stay.
Go, go to the mountain-top,—there make thy nest; ’Tis nearer thy own native home; And live on its peak like a silvery crest, Where nothing to soil thee can come.
This emblem—how apt of a virtuous mind Made pure by the Spirit divine! Like a snow-wreath ’tis marred in a world so unkind, Fit only in heaven to shine.
J. B. Waterbury.
_The First Snow._
To-day has been a pleasant day, Despite the cold and snow: A Sabbath stillness filled the air, And pictures slumbered every where, Around, above, below.
We woke at dawn and saw the trees Before our windows white; Their limbs were clad with snow-like bark, Save that the under sides were dark, Like bars against the light.
The fence was white around the house, The lamp before the door; The porch was glazed with pearlèd sleet, Great drifts lay in the silent street, The street was seen no more!
Long trenches had been roughly dug, And giant foot-prints made; But few were out; the streets were bare; I saw but one pale wanderer there, And he was like a shade!
I seemed to walk another world, Where all was still and blest; The cloudless sky, the stainless snows,— It was a vision of repose, A dream of heavenly rest,—
A dream the holy night completes; For now the moon hath come, I stand in heaven with folded wings, A free and happy soul that sings When all things else are dumb!
Richard Henry Stoddard.
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Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends, At first thin-wavering, till at last the flakes Fall broad and wide and fast, dimming the day With a continual flow. The cherished fields Put on their winter robe of purest white; ’Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts Along the mazy current. Low the woods Bow their hoar head; and, ere the languid sun Faint from the west emits its evening ray, Earth’s universal face, deep-hid and chill, Is one wide dazzling waste, that buries wide The works of man.
Thomson.
Grace.
_The Lord giveth Snow like wool.—Psalm 47:18._
Cold and dreary as winter is, it is not devoid of interest to the man of taste and Christian sentiment. Look at the delicate snow-flake. With what grace of motion has God endowed it! How childlike, gently, peacefully, confidingly the little creature comes down into our turbulent earth! It is not difficult to conceive that it comes as an attendant on some angel, whose movements it imitates.
Kirk.
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We have sat and watched the fall of snow until our head grew dizzy, for it is a bewitching sight to persons speculatively inclined. There is an aimless way of riding down, a simple, careless, thoughtless motion, that leads you to think that nothing can be more nonchalant than snow. And then it rests upon a leaf or alights upon the ground, with such a dainty step, so softly, so quietly, that you almost pity its virgin helplessness. If you reach out your hand to help it, your very touch destroys it. It dies in your palm, and departs as a tear.
Nowhere is snow so beautiful as when one sojourns in a good old-fashioned mansion in the country, bright and warm, full of home joy and quiet. You look out through large windows and see one of those flights of snow in a still, calm day, that make the air seem as if it were full of white millers or butterflies, fluttering down from heaven. There is something extremely beautiful in the motion of these large flakes of snow. They do not make haste, nor plump straight down with a dead fall, like a whistling rain-drop. They seem to be at leisure; and descend with that quiet, wavering, sideway motion which birds sometimes use when about to alight. You think you are reading; and so you are, but it is not in the book that lies open before you. The silent, dreamy hour passes away, and you have not felt it pass. The trees are dressed with snow. The long arms of evergreens bend with its weight; the rails are doubled, and every post wears a starry crown. The well-sweep, the bucket, the well-curb are fleeced over. And still the silent, quivering air is full of trooping flakes, thousands following to take the place of all that fall. The ground is heaped, the paths are gone, the road is hidden, the fields are leveled, the eaves of buildings jut over, and, as the day moves on, the fences grow shorter, and gradually sink from sight. All night the heavens rain crystal flakes. Yet, that roof, on which the smallest rain pattered audible music, gives no sound. There is no echo in the stroke of snow, until it waxes to an avalanche and slips from the mountains. Then it fills the air like thunderbolts.
Beecher.
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Falling snow is beautiful in a forest. It comes wavering down among the trees without a whisper, and takes to the ground without the sound of a footfall. Evergreen trees grow intense in contrasts of dark-green ruffled with radiant white. Bush and tree are powdered and banked up. Not the slightest sound is made in all the work which fills the woods with winter soil many feet deep. When the morning comes, then comes the sun also. The storm has gone back to its northern nest to shed its feathers there. The air is still, cold, bright. But what a glory rests upon the too brilliant earth! Are these the January leaves?—is this the winter efflorescence of shrub and tree? You can scarcely look for the exceeding brightness. Trees stand up against the clear, gray sky, brown and white in contrast, as if each trunk and bough and branch and twig had been coated with ermine, or with white moss. There is an exquisite airiness and lightness in the masses of snow on trees and fences, when seen just as the storm left them. The wind or sun soon disenchants the magic scene.
Ib.
_The Snow-Storm._
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields, Seems no where to alight; the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven, And vails the farm-house at the garden’s end. The sled and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the house-mates sit Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north-wind’s masonry. Out of an unseen quarry, evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Carves his white bastions, with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door, Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage; naught cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall, Mauger the farmer’s sighs, and at the gate A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic, in those structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow.
R. W. Emerson.
_The Spirit of the Snow._
The night brings forth the morn; Of the cloud is lightning born; From out the darkest earth the brightest roses grow; Bright sparks from black flints fly; And from out a leaden sky Comes the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow.
The wondering air grows mute, As her pearly parachute Cometh slowly down from heaven, softly floating to and fro; And the earth emits no sound, As lightly on the ground Leaps the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow.
At the contact of her tread, The mountain’s festal head As with chaplets of white roses seems to glow;
And its furrowed cheeks grow white, With a feeling of delight, At the presence of the Spirit of the Snow.
As she wendeth to the vale, The longing fields grow pale, The tiny streams that vein them cease to flow; And the river stays its tide, With wonder and with pride, To gaze upon the Spirit of the Snow.
But little does she deem The love of field or stream; She is frolicsome and lightsome as the roe; She is here and she is there; On the earth or in the air, Ever-changing, floats the Spirit of the Snow.
Now, a daring climber, she Mounts the tallest forest tree,— Out along the dizzy branches doth she go! And her tassels, silver-white, Down-swinging through the night, Mark the pillow of the Spirit of the Snow.
Now she climbs the mighty mast, Where the sailor-boy at last Dreams of home, in his hammock down below; There she watches in his stead, Till the morning light shines red, Then evanishes the Spirit of the Snow.
Or, crowning with white fire The minster’s topmost spire With a glory such as sainted foreheads show, She teaches fanes are given Thus to lift the heart to heaven, There to melt like the Spirit of the Snow.
Now above the loaded wain, Now beneath the thundering train, Doth she hear the sweet bells tinkle and the snorting engine blow; Now she flutters on the breeze, Till the branches of the trees Catch the tossed and tangled tresses of the Spirit of the Snow.
Now an infant’s balmy breath Gives the Spirit seeming death, When adown her pallid features fair, Decay’s damp dew-drops flow; Now, again her strong assault Can make an army halt, And trench itself in terror ’gainst the Spirit of the Snow.
At times, with gentle power, In visiting some bower, She scarce will hide the holly’s red, the blackness of the sloe; But ah! her awful might, When down some Alpine hight The hapless hamlet sinks before the Spirit of the Snow.
On a feather she floats down The turbid rivers brown,— Down to meet the drifting navies of the winter-freighted foe; Then swift o’er the azure walls Of the awful waterfalls, Where Niagara leaps roaring, glides the Spirit of the Snow.
With her flag of truce unfurled, She makes peace o’er all the world,— Makes bloody battle cease awhile, and war’s unpitying woe; Till its hollow womb within The deep-mouthed culverin Incloses, like a cradled child, the Spirit of the Snow.
In her spotless linen hood, Like the other sisterhood, She braves the open cloister where the psalm sounds sweet and low, When some sister’s bier doth pass From the minster and the mass, Soon to sink into the earth, like the Spirit of the Snow.
But at times so full of joy, She will play with girl and boy, Fly from out their tingling fingers, like white fire-balls on the foe; She will burst in feathery flakes; And the ruin that she makes Will but wake the crackling laughter of the Spirit of the Snow.
Or, in furry mantle dressed, She will fondle on her breast The embryo buds awaiting the near Spring’s mysterious throe So fondly that the first Of the blossoms that outburst Will be called the beauteous daughter of the Spirit of the Snow.
Ah! would that we were sure Of hearts so warmly pure, In all the winter weather that this lesser life must know; That when shines the Sun of Love From a warmer realm above, In its life we may dissolve, like the Spirit of the Snow.
Dublin University Magazine.
BEAUTY.
_He hath made every thing beautiful in his time.—Ecclesiastes 3:11._
Snow is the adornment of winter. Its beauty is a compensation for the loss of the flowers and foliage of the milder seasons. When Nature has put off her green robes, when the fields have become bare, the streams and lakes ice-bound, and the hum of the bees and the songs of the birds are no longer heard, then God opens his treasure-house and brings forth jewels for the coronation of the year. He throws over the earth a robe of purest white, he festoons each shrub and tree with diamonds and pearls, and bids every beholder rejoice in these manifestations of his skill. For all the beauty of the earth is but the outward expression of the beauty which dwells eternal in the Divine Mind. Each six-leaved blossom of winter had its pattern in his thought before it was created; and all the diversities of its forms show the wealth of his resources even in the smallest things. So God has not left himself “without witness” for a single season. Each has its message from heaven, unfolding his glories, and bidding man behold and adore.
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