36
winter scenes in the country.
Have on a crystal coat of mail, and seem
All decked and tricked out for a holiday,
And every stone shines in its wreath of gems.
The pert, familiar robin, as he flies
From spray to spray, showers diamonds around,
And moves in rainbow light where'er he goes.
The universe looks glad; but words are vain,
To paint the wonders of the splendid show.
The heart exults with uncontrolled delight.
The glorious pageant slowly moves away,
As the sun sinks behind the western hills.
So fancy, for a short and fleeting day,
May shed upon the cold and barren earth
Her bright enchantments and her dazzling hues';
And thus they melt and fade away, and leave
A cold and dull reality behind.
But see where in the clear, unclouded sky,
The crescent moon, with calm and sweet rebuke,
Doth charm away the spirit of complaint.
Her tender light falls on the snow-clad hills,
Like the pure thoughts that angels might bestow
Upon this world of beauty, and of sin,
That mingle not with that whereon they rest;—
So should immortal spirits dwell below.
There is a holy influence in the moon,
And in the countless hosts of silent stars,
The heart cannot resist: its passions sleep,
And all is still; save that which shall awake
When all this vast and fair creation sleeps.
All decked and tricked out for a holiday,
And every stone shines in its wreath of gems.
The pert, familiar robin, as he flies
From spray to spray, showers diamonds around,
And moves in rainbow light where'er he goes.
The universe looks glad; but words are vain,
To paint the wonders of the splendid show.
The heart exults with uncontrolled delight.
The glorious pageant slowly moves away,
As the sun sinks behind the western hills.
So fancy, for a short and fleeting day,
May shed upon the cold and barren earth
Her bright enchantments and her dazzling hues';
And thus they melt and fade away, and leave
A cold and dull reality behind.
But see where in the clear, unclouded sky,
The crescent moon, with calm and sweet rebuke,
Doth charm away the spirit of complaint.
Her tender light falls on the snow-clad hills,
Like the pure thoughts that angels might bestow
Upon this world of beauty, and of sin,
That mingle not with that whereon they rest;—
So should immortal spirits dwell below.
There is a holy influence in the moon,
And in the countless hosts of silent stars,
The heart cannot resist: its passions sleep,
And all is still; save that which shall awake
When all this vast and fair creation sleeps.
