THE FIRST SNOW-FALL

THE Snow had begun in the gloaming,
And busily all the night

Had beer. heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock

Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,
The stiff rails softened to swan's-down,
And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky,
And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood;

How the flakes were folding it gently.
As did robins the babes in the wood.

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Up spoke our own little Mabel

Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?" And I told of the good All-father

Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall,

And thought of the leaden sky

That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience

That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding.

The scar that renewed our woe.

And again to the child I whispered, "The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father

Alone can make it fall! "

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow.

1849.

James Russell Lowell.

A DEATH-BED

HER suffering ended with the day,

Yet lived she at its close,

And breathed the long, long night away
In a statue-like repose.

But when the sun in all his state

Illumed the eastern skies,

She passed through Glory's morning gate
And walked in Paradise!

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James Aldrich.

c. 1840.

MY SISTER'S SLEEP

SHE fell asleep on Christmas Eve:
At length the long-ungranted shade
Of weary eyelids overweigh'd

The pain nought else might yet relieve.

Our mother, who had leaned all day
Over the bed from chime to chime,
Then raised herself for the first time,
And as she sat her down, did pray.

Her little work-table was spread
With work to finish. For the glare
Made by her candle, she had care
To work some distance from the bed.

Without, there was a cold moon up,

Of winter radiance sheer and thin;
The hollow halo it was in
Was like an icy crystal cup.

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Through the small room, with subtle sound
Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove
And reddened. In its dim alcove
The mirror shed a clearness round.

I had been sitting up some nights,
And my tired mind felt weak and blank;
Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank
The stillness and the broken lights.

Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling

years

Heard in each hour, crept off; and then
The ruffled silence spread again,

Like water that a pebble stirs.

Our mother rose from where she sat:
Her needles, as she laid them down,
Met lightly, and her silken gown
Settled: no other noise than that.

Glory unto the Newly Born!"

So, as said angels, she did say; Because we were in Christmas Day, Though it would still be long till morn.

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Just then in the room over us

There was a pushing back of chairs,
As some who had sat unawares
So late, now heard the hour, and rose.

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1

With anxious softly-stepping haste
Our mother went where Margaret lay,
Fearing the sounds o'erhead-should they
Have broken her long watched-for rest!

She stooped an instant, calm, and turned;
But suddenly turned back again;

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And all her features seemed in pain With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned. 48

For my part, I but hid my face,

And held my breath, and spoke no word:
There was none spoken; but I heard

The silence for a little space.

Our mother bowed herself and wept:
And both my arms fell, and I said,
"God knows I knew that she was dead."
And there, all white, my sister slept.

Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn
A little after twelve o'clock,

We said, ere the first quarter struck, "Christ's blessing on the newly born!" 1847. 1850.

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Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

THE MOTHER'S DREAM

I'D a dream to-night

As I fell asleep,

Oh! the touching sight

Makes me still to weep: