Death of the Seasons. 213 



Upon a moorland stood a tall pale figure ; 

 And far as eye could reach, the Earth with snow 

 Was covered o'er. On every side each hill 

 And valley lay, enrobed in spotless white ; 

 "While o'er the distant horizon gleamed 

 The snowy crests of ocean's waves. 



And all 

 Was still, serenelij still, not voice or sound 

 From busy mart disturbed the quiet 

 Of that spell bound spot. 



And in the sky 

 Above, the moon moved on in majesty, 

 Casting her peerless rays on all around. 

 And bathing all the scene in yellow light ; 

 So that it seemed like an enchanted land. 

 But in the midst old Winter stood with locks 

 All white and hoary ; and the moonbeams shed 

 Their silvery radiance o'er those features pale, 

 Bright'ning the eyes now dim with age. 



And Hope's 

 Bright star did light the depths of those dim eyes, 

 As stars, at night, light up the turbid waves 

 Of some deep, sullen river. Thus, Winter, 

 Hoping to meet Earth's children, unattended 

 By the pale conqueror's shaft, murmured in 

 Tones low and tremulous : " I go to earth, 

 But thy dire presence. Death, is needed not ; 

 Man shouts no welcome when my voice is heard, 

 But in the fastness of his home-retreat ; 

 He draws the curtains — stirs the blazing fire, 

 And while the raging elements without 

 Are howling round, he hurls defiance 

 To ray power. — Still I would spare his lov'd ones, 

 Spare the cherished lorms he seeks to shelter 

 From my grasp so rude. 



But Death, all haloed 

 Bound with moonlight, did sternly gaze 

 On Winter's furrowed brow — then from those eyes 

 Fled the bright starlight, and in silence, side 

 By side, they journeyed on. 



Thus Death attends the footsteps of the seasons ; 

 And whether Earth be bright and beautiful. 

 Or whether it be desolate and drear, 



