DECEMBER. 



I 



299 



Say not 'tis an unlovely time 



Turn to the wide, wnite 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, 

 Readv a-wing for flight, doth go 

 To the cold northern land of snow , 



Beyond the icy Orcades. 



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 tl e heavens, intense and bright ! 

 Look on yon myriad worlds, and say, 

 Though beauty dwelleth with the day, 

 Is not God manifest by night? 



