388 DECEMBER. 



The land of ice, the land of snow, 

 The land that hath no summer-flowers, 

 Where never living creature stood ; 

 The wild, dim, polar solitude : 



How different from this land of ours ! 



Walk now among the forest trees, 



Said'st thou that they were stripped and bare ? 

 Each heavy bough is bending down 

 With snowy leaves and flowers the crown 

 Which Winter regally doth wear. 



'Tis well thy summer-garden ne'er 



Was lovelier with its birds and flowers, 

 Than is this silent place of snow, 

 With feathery branches drooping low, 

 Wreathing around thee shadowy bowers ! 



'Tis night ! Oh now come forth to gaze 



Upon the heavens, intense and bright ! 

 Look on yon myriad worlds, and say, 

 Though beauty dwelleth with the day, 

 Is not God manifest by night ? 



