 | The harp and plow |  |
FEBRUARY.
O, Winter! unto those who feel
No creature-comfort unsupplied,
Whose garners swell with precious fruits
Of acres stretching far and wide;
Whose vestments warm, and dwellings grand,
Thy fiercest howling blast withstand,—
Thy presence pleasure brings;
The ride, the dance, the gay soiree,
The fireside circle's bright display
O'er joyless Nature flings
A veil, to hide her visage pale,
To stifle Want's heart-moving tale
Uprising from thy snows.
And though around the pampered form
Is girt the cloak of comfort warm,
The heart within, God knows,
Is cold and deaf;—it has no ear
The plaint of misery to hear—
A supplicated boon;
'Tis cold with selfishness, as now
Upon Monadnock's glittering brow
The light of winter's moon!
No creature-comfort unsupplied,
Whose garners swell with precious fruits
Of acres stretching far and wide;
Whose vestments warm, and dwellings grand,
Thy fiercest howling blast withstand,—
Thy presence pleasure brings;
The ride, the dance, the gay soiree,
The fireside circle's bright display
O'er joyless Nature flings
A veil, to hide her visage pale,
To stifle Want's heart-moving tale
Uprising from thy snows.
And though around the pampered form
Is girt the cloak of comfort warm,
The heart within, God knows,
Is cold and deaf;—it has no ear
The plaint of misery to hear—
A supplicated boon;
'Tis cold with selfishness, as now
Upon Monadnock's glittering brow
The light of winter's moon!
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Think, favored ones, within the streets
So broad, where Plenty Pleasure meets,—
Think of the bye and lonely roads
That lead to Misery's abodes!
The hut, half-buried in the snow;
The stolen fuel, burning low,
O'er which, in fear, some squalid form
Is crouched, its shivering self to warm;
And mopes, and muses, starts and stares,
Raves of its woes, and plots, and swears!
Think of the victim you might save
From prison glooms, from felon's grave;
And lead, with timely aid bestowed,
On Virtue's heaven-seeking road.
Pray, favored ones, within whose door
The fierce temptations of the poor,
Barred out by Plenty, never come
Like fiends to desolate your home—
Pray, in the heart of winter-time,
For the poor child of Want and Crime.
Think of the cot on some bleak plain,
Where Winter's winds their strength unchain;
Where whirling through the leaden skies
The smothering tempest madly flies!
There, hidden by the trackless snows,
Poor suffering Worth sustains its woes;
Feeds spirit from the stores of faith,
While the poor body starves to death.
So broad, where Plenty Pleasure meets,—
Think of the bye and lonely roads
That lead to Misery's abodes!
The hut, half-buried in the snow;
The stolen fuel, burning low,
O'er which, in fear, some squalid form
Is crouched, its shivering self to warm;
And mopes, and muses, starts and stares,
Raves of its woes, and plots, and swears!
Think of the victim you might save
From prison glooms, from felon's grave;
And lead, with timely aid bestowed,
On Virtue's heaven-seeking road.
Pray, favored ones, within whose door
The fierce temptations of the poor,
Barred out by Plenty, never come
Like fiends to desolate your home—
Pray, in the heart of winter-time,
For the poor child of Want and Crime.
Think of the cot on some bleak plain,
Where Winter's winds their strength unchain;
Where whirling through the leaden skies
The smothering tempest madly flies!
There, hidden by the trackless snows,
Poor suffering Worth sustains its woes;
Feeds spirit from the stores of faith,
While the poor body starves to death.
O, when will Heaven deign to give
To those who on its bounty live
And have thereof to spare,
A feeling heart, to cheer the sad,
To bless the good, to guide the bad,
And with the needy share!
To those who on its bounty live
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A feeling heart, to cheer the sad,
To bless the good, to guide the bad,
And with the needy share!
| The harp and plow | |