THE FOREST BOY.
67
But once more the tempests of chill Winter blow,
To depress and disfigure the earth;
And now ere the dawn, the young Woodman must go
To his work in the forest, half buried in snow,
And at night bring home wood for the hearth.
The bridge on the heath by the flood was wash'd down,
And fast, fast fell the sleet and the rain,
The stream to a wild rapid river was grown,
And long might the widow sit sighing alone
Ere sweet Phoebe could see her again.
