WINTER. 327 



The owl sits huddling by himself, 

 The cold has pierced his body thorough ; 



The patient cattle hang their head ; 



The deer are 'neath their winter shed ; 



The ruddy squirrel's in his bed, 



And each small thing within its burrow. 



In rich men's halls the fire is piled, 



And ermine robes keep out the weather; 

 In poor men's huts the fire is low, 

 Through broken panes the keen winds blow, 

 And old and young are cold together. 



Oh, poverty is disconsolate ! 

 Its pains are many, its foes are strong: 



The rich man in his jovial cheer, 



Wishes 'twas winter through the year ; 



The poor man 'mid his wants profound, 



With all his little children round, 

 Prays God that winter be not long ! 



One silent night hath pass'd, and lo ! 



How beautiful the earth is now ! 

 All aspect of decay is gone, 

 The hills have put their vesture on, 



And clothed is the forest bough. 



Say not 'tis an unlovely time ! 



Turn to the wide, white waste thy view ; 

 Turn to the silent hills that rise 

 In their cold beauty to the skies ; 



And to those skies intensely blue. 



Silent, not sad, the scene appeareth ; 



And fancy, like a vagrant breeze, 

 Ready a-wing for flight, doth go 

 To the cold nothern land of snow, 



Beyond the icy Orcades. 



