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'Tis winter, yet there is no sound

Along the air,

Of winds upon their battle-ground,
But gently there,

The snow is falling,-all around

How fair-how fair!

The jocund fields would masquerade;

Fantastic scene!

Tree, shrub, and lawn, and lonely glade
Have cast their green,

And joined the revel, all arrayed

So white and clean.

E'en the old posts, that hold the bars

And the old gate,

Forgetful of their wintry wars,

And age sedate,

High capped, and plumed, like white hussars,

Stand there in state.

The drifts are hanging by the sill,

The eaves, the door;

The hay-stack has become a hill;

All covered o'er

The waggon, loaded for the mill

The eve before.

Maria brings the water-pail,

But where's the well!

Like magic of a fairy tale,

Most strange to tell,

All vanished, curb, and crank, and rail!

How deep it fell!

The wood-pile, too, is playing hide;
The axe, the log,

The kennel of that friend so tried,

(The old watch-dog,)

The grindstone standing by its side,
All now incog.

The bustling cock looks out aghast
From his high shed;

No spot to scratch him a repast
Up curves his head,

Starts the dull hamlet with a blast,

And back to bed.

Old drowsy dobbin, at the call,

Amazed, awakes;

Out from the window of his stall

A view he takes;

While thick and faster seem to fall

The silent flakes.

The barn-yard gentry, musing, chime
Their morning moan;

Like Memnon's music of old time

That voice of stone!

So marbled they-and so sublime
Their solemn tone.

Good Ruth has called the younker folk

To dress below;

Full welcome was the word she spoke,

Down, down they gc,

The cottage quietude is broke,—

The snow!-the snow!

Now rises from around the fire

A pleasant strain;

Ye giddy sons of mirth, retire!

And ye profane!

A hymn to the Eternal Sire

Goes up again.

The patriarchal Book divine,

Upon the knee,

Opes where the gems of Judah shine,

(Sweet minstrelsie !)

How soars each heart with each fair line,

Oh God, to Thee!

Around the altar low they bend,

Devout in prayer;

As snows upon the roof descend,

So angels there

Come down that household to defend

With gentle care.

Now sings the kettle o'er the blaze;

The buckwheat heaps;

Rare Mocha, worth an Arab's praise,

Sweet Susan steeps;

The old round stand her nod obeys,
And out it leaps.

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Now tiny snow-birds venture nigh
From copse and spray,

(Sweet strangers! with the winter's sky

To pass away ;)

And gather crumbs in full supply,

For all the day.

Let now the busy hours begin :

Out rolls the churn;

Forth hastes the farm-boy, and brings in The brush to burn;

Sweep, shovel, scour, sew, knit, and spin, "Till night's return.

To delve his threshing John must hie;

His sturdy shoe

Can all the subtle damp defy;

How wades he through!

While dainty milkmaids slow and shy,

His track pursue.

Each to the hour's allotted care;

To shell the corn;

The broken harness to repair;

The sleigh t' adorn;

As cheerful, tranquil, frosty, fair,

Speeds on the morn.

While mounts the eddying smoke amain

From many a hearth,

And all the landscape rings again

With rustic mirth;

So gladsome seems to every swain

The snowy earth.

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