Massachusetts Spy And Worcester Advertiser

Poetry.

FOR THE MASSACHUSETTS SPY.

THE SNOW STORM

It is a chilly day: the sun has hid
Himself behind the clouds that veil the sky;
There is no beam that warms the frigid fields:
All that, which once my gazing eye well pleas'd,
Looks drear; and every stream that murmur'd on
Through meadows deck'd with flowers, and rattle do'er
Its pebbled bed, congeals and turns to ice.
But just above my dwelling climbs the smoke.
And forms a cloud that hangs portending storms.
The glowing fire, that heats the fire-side hot,
Scarce warms me. All is chill, and whistling winds
Forewarn that soon a storm will fill the air.
And whiten all the tract that stretches wide.
The forest groans, and utters forth those sounds,
That tell that Winter wields his tyrant rod.
Methinks he now shows forth his hoary head;
For 'mong the trees, I see, thick falling round,
Like leaves in Autumn shaken by the wind.
The flakes of snow that dress in white the ground.
O chilling Potentate! thy coming stay;
Do hear my prayer: no more my limbs benumb.
Ah me! how ruthless-sure 'tis that, with all
His blustering and sleet, he hears me not.
See here-the broad horizon, that just now
Appear'd to reach as far as eye could ken,
Becomes confin'd to bounds that reach not far.
The reverend elm, that high o'ertops my cot,
Around whose trunk and limbs the snows, in years
Gone by, here flung a garb quite colourless,
Bows down his lofty top, and seems to shake
The snow from off his leafless, pendant boughs.
I hear a sound, as if the storm's more fierce-
'Tis so: it comes and buries deep in drifts
The walls and fence that line the highway side,
And herds and flocks, if chance they be unstalled.
See where the sleet blows on from drift to drift-
And mind what strange effect the storm has had-
And how the hills appear deep clad in snow.
The wind, not yet gone down, sweeps through the wood,
And brings a dismal, harsh, uncheerful sound
Of creaking branches, writh'd and toss'd about;
While round my window whirl the yellow leaves
That grew on some tall tree, now bending low.
'Tis winter! lo, all nature wears a look
That saddens, and an aspect void of cheer.
But why complain I thus at Winter's looks?
The jingling bells will soon dispel its gloom,
And all the town will be a busy scene.

Worcester, 1825.
F.A.