90 



NEW ENGLAND FARMER. 



fhn, 



THE SNOW. 



The following beautiful Poem will coramend 

 itself, if not to all lovers of poetry, at least to 

 all such as have passed their early days in a 

 country home. Who of ua does not remember 

 the excitement among the "younger folk," on 

 waking of a Winter morning and finding roof, 

 and tree, and windoAV, covered with snow — the 

 Jirst snow ! And here we have the picture all 

 spread out before us. Why, Ave half fancy the 

 poet must be describing the very gate, and post, 

 and wood-pile that we knew in "old lang syne !" 

 Even the "bristling cock" greets the dawn with 

 a voice quite familiar to our ears. 



But the Well — ah, the well should have a sweep 

 instead of a "crank," to make the picture perfect. 



Ralph Hoyt, the writer of the poem, has done 

 enough in this single production, to entitle him- 

 self to high rank in the scroll of poetic fame. 

 He is a clergyman, we understand, and a resident 

 at one time of New Yoi'k city, where we believe 

 he published a volume of poems, of which this 

 was one. The volume we have never seen. We 

 find the poem in the beautiful volume entitled 

 "The Poets of the Nineteenth Century," recently 

 published by the Harpers, and also in their 

 .Monthly Magazine. 



THE SNOW. 



BY RALPH HOYT. 



The blessed morn has come again : 



The early gray 

 Taps at the slumbei 's window pane,, 



And seems to say, 

 "Break, break from the enchanter's Cbaie, 



Away, — awaj' !" 



'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 j jcund fields would masquerade ; 



Fantastic scene ! 

 Trees, shrub and lawn and lonely gla<ie 



Have cast their green, 

 And joined the revel, all arrayed 



So white and clean. 



E'en the old post that holds 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 siU, 



The eves, the door ; 

 The hay-stack has become a hill ; 



All covered o'er, 

 -The wagon, loaded for ttie mil] 



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 crack, and rat). 

 How deep it fell ! 



The wood-pile, too, is playing hide ; 



The axe — thf log — 

 Tiic kennel of that friend so tried — 



(The old watch-dog,) 

 The grindstone standing by its side, 



All now incog. 



Tiie 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, 



Then back to bed. 



The barn-yard gentry musing, cliime 



Their morning moan ; 

 Like Memnon's music of old time — 



That voice of stone ! 

 So warbled they — and so sublime 



Their solemn tone. 



Good Ruth has called the younger folk 



To dress below ; 

 Full welcome was the word she spoke ; 



Down, down they go, — 

 The cottage quietude is broke, — 



The snow ! — the snow I ^ 



Kow 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, 



O, God ! to Thee ! 



Around the altar low they bend. 



Devout in prayer '. 

 As snows upon the roof descend, 



So angels there 

 Guard o'er that household, to defend 



With gentle care. 



Now sings the kettle o'er the blaze ; 



The buckwheat heaps ; 

 Kare Mocha, worth an Arab's praise, 



Sweet Susan steeps ; 

 The old round stand her nod obeys. 



And out it leaps. 



Unerring presages declare 



The banquet near ; 

 Soon busy appetites are there ; 



And disapi'iear 

 Tlie glories of the ample fare. 



With thanks sincere. 



Now let the busy day begin ; — 



Out rolls the churn. 

 Forth hastens 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 Jolm must hie ; 



His sturdy shoe 

 Can all the subtle damp defy ; 



How wades he through ! 

 Wliile dainty milk-maids, slow and shy. 



His track pursue. 



E^ch to the hour's allotted care ; 



To shell the com ; 

 The broken harness to repair ; 



The sleigh t' adorn ; 

 So cheprfiil, tranquil, pnowy fii'. 



The WIMTKU MOE.N. 



