A Winter Piece.

The time has been that these wild solitudes,     Yet beautiful as wild, were trod by me     Oftener than now; and when the ills of life     Had chafed my spirit, when the unsteady pulse     Beat with strange flutterings, I would wander forth     And seek the woods. The sunshine on my path     Was to me as a friend. The swelling hills,     The quiet dells retiring far between,     With gentle invitation to explore     Their windings, were a calm society     That talked with me and soothed me. Then the chant     Of birds, and chime of brooks, and soft caress     Of the fresh sylvan air, made me forget     The thoughts that broke my peace, and I began     To gather simples by the fountain's brink,     And lose myself in day-dreams. While I stood     In nature's loneliness, I was with one     With whom I early grew familiar, one     Who never had a frown for me, whose voice     Never rebuked me for the hours I stole     From cares I loved not, but of which the world     Deems highest, to converse with her. When shrieked     The bleak November winds, and smote the woods,     And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades,     That met above the merry rivulet,     Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still, they seemed     Like old companions in adversity.     Still there was beauty in my walks; the brook,     Bordered with sparkling frost-work, was as gay     As with its fringe of summer flowers. Afar,     The village with its spires, the path of streams,     And dim receding valleys, hid before     By interposing trees, lay visible     Through the bare grove, and my familiar haunts     Seemed new to me. Nor was I slow to come     Among them, when the clouds, from their still skirts,     Had shaken down on earth the feathery snow,     And all was white. The pure keen air abroad,     Albeit it breathed no scent of herb, nor heard     Love-call of bird, nor merry hum of bee,     Was not the air of death. Bright mosses crept     Over the spotted trunks, and the close buds,     That lay along the boughs, instinct with life,     Patient, and waiting the soft breath of Spring,     Feared not the piercing spirit of the North.     The snow-bird twittered on the beechen bough,     And 'neath the hemlock, whose thick branches bent     Beneath its bright cold burden, and kept dry     A circle, on the earth, of withered leaves,     The partridge found a shelter. Through the snow     The rabbit sprang away. The lighter track     Of fox, and the racoon's broad path, were there,     Crossing each other. From his hollow tree,     The squirrel was abroad, gathering the nuts     Just fallen, that asked the winter cold and sway     Of winter blast, to shake them from their hold.     But Winter has yet brighter scenes, he boasts     Splendours beyond what gorgeous Summer knows;     Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods     All flushed with many hues. Come when the rains     Have glazed the snow, and clothed the trees with ice;     While the slant sun of February pours     Into the bowers a flood of light. Approach!     The incrusted surface shall upbear thy steps,     And the broad arching portals of the grove     Welcome thy entering. Look! the massy trunks     Are cased in the pure crystal; each light spray,     Nodding and tinkling in the breath of heaven,     Is studded with its trembling water-drops,     That stream with rainbow radiance as they move.     But round the parent stem the long low boughs     Bend, in a glittering ring, and arbours hide     The glassy floor. Oh! you might deem the spot     The spacious cavern of some virgin mine,     Deep in the womb of earth, where the gems grow,     And diamonds put forth radiant rods and bud     With amethyst and topaz, and the place     Lit up, most royally, with the pure beam     That dwells in them. Or haply the vast hall     Of fairy palace, that outlasts the night,     And fades not in the glory of the sun;     Where crystal columns send forth slender shafts     And crossing arches; and fantastic aisles     Wind from the sight in brightness, and are lost     Among the crowded pillars. Raise thine eye,     Thou seest no cavern roof, no palace vault;     There the blue sky and the white drifting cloud     Look in. Again the wildered fancy dreams     Of spouting fountains, frozen as they rose,     And fixed, with all their branching jets, in air,     And all their sluices sealed. All, all is light;     Light without shade. But all shall pass away     With the next sun. From numberless vast trunks,     Loosened, the crashing ice shall make a sound     Like the far roar of rivers, and the eve     Shall close o'er the brown woods as it was wont.     And it is pleasant, when the noisy streams     Are just set free, and milder suns melt off     The plashy snow, save only the firm drift     In the deep glen or the close shade of pines,     'Tis pleasant to behold the wreaths of smoke     Roll up among the maples of the hill,     Where the shrill sound of youthful voices wakes     The shriller echo, as the clear pure lymph,     That from the wounded trees, in twinkling drops,     Falls, mid the golden brightness of the morn,     Is gathered in with brimming pails, and oft,     Wielded by sturdy hands, the stroke of axe     Makes the woods ring. Along the quiet air,     Come and float calmly off the soft light clouds,     Such as you see in summer, and the winds     Scarce stir the branches. Lodged in sunny cleft,     Where the cold breezes come not, blooms alone     The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye     Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at,     Startling the loiterer in the naked groves     With unexpected beauty, for the time     Of blossoms and green leaves is yet afar.     And ere it comes, the encountering winds shall oft     Muster their wrath again, and rapid clouds     Shade heaven, and bounding on the frozen earth     Shall fall their volleyed stores rounded like hail,     And white like snow, and the loud North again     Shall buffet the vexed forest in his rage.