University of Virginia Library

A CHRISTMAS ELEGY.

Gentle, with ours compared, is the rudest of Italy's winters:
Ever at hand is the sun, ready all ills to repair;
Green are the garments of earth, and almost as fresh as in summer;
Warm are the tints of the hills, free are the rivers from ice.
There amid holm-oaks and bays, and laurels and trellises verdant,
Winter, while Spring is asleep, stealeth his flowery garb;
Ay, and his heavenly smile; so that those with Winter familiar,
Meeting him thus in disguise, hail him, delighted, as Spring.
Yet, notwithstanding this beauty, that Italy wears in the winter,
Almost a prison it seems, when I remember the North.
Where, in his mantle of snow, with icicles bearded and hoar-frost,
Winter holds Nature for months, clasped in his shaggy embrace.
For, in the lands that are cold, there resideth a poetry homely,
Cosiness-loving and sweet, ne'er understood in the South.
Born of the long winter evenings, it lurks by the hearth that is cheery,
When, in the darkness outside, moaneth the pitiless wind:
Living in customs ancestral, with rough hospitality mingled,
Unto the homes of the North great is the charm that it lends.
There was my boyhood spent, and memories dear of Christmas
Often come home to my mind out of the years that are dead:
Fir-trees all covered with toys, and blazing with numberless tapers,
Filling the room with a scent, mingled of fir and of wax—
Pyramids radiant and rich: and the faces of children around them,
Happy and wistful and sweet, waiting with wonder their share;
Puddings encircled with flame, and pies for the Gods too delicious;
Customs derived from the past, cheering both body and soul;
Branches of holly all prickly, with beautiful berries of scarlet;
Branches of mistletoe strange, laden with berries of white.
Outdoor memories too: the feel of the snow in its crispness,
Taking the print of the foot, softly, with faintest of creaks;
Or, where the snow has been swept, the ring of the earth that is frozen
Under the foot as you stamp, warming the limbs that are numb;
Snow from the branches dislodged, by the breeze that is gentle and fitful,
Falling in spray to the ground, bright in the sun without heat;
Snowballing furious and fast, and the thud of the well-patted snow-ball,
Stopped by a wall or a tree, leaving its record behind;
Dead leaves white with the frost, and bushes with crystals incrusted,
Sparkling and delicate fur, turning to silver the twigs.
Still insecure is the ice; and the boys are hovering round it,
Cautiously trying its strength, keeping one foot on the brink,
Throwing a stone now and then, that sings as it bounds o'er its surface;
Only the boldest advance, braving the ominous cracks.
Skaters begin to appear, the sky with anxiety watching;
Strong enough soon is the ice; soon is the fun at its height.
Slides by the margin are formed; the sliders press close on each other,
Shouting with glee as they go, falling at last in a heap.
Booths on the banks are erected, by vendors of comforting liquors,
Or by the letters of skates: idlers by dozens arrive,
Watching the crowd of the skaters revolving in circles incessant,
Flitting like shadows unheard, swiftly in maze without end;
Poised on the breadth of a hair, and moving in beautiful balance,
Backwards or forwards at will, over the surface new born.
Mighty enchanter was he, who, taking advantage of Nature's
Temper most transient, the frost, furnished this art unto men:
Teaching them motions unknown, and which seemed out of reach of their species;
Choosing, as field of his skill, that which is gone in a day!
Beautiful art that I loved, by a cruel denial of movement
Rendered still dearer now, ne'er shall I know thee again.
Lost are these pastimes for me, with the North I shall never return to—
Lost with the health that is gone—lost with the years that have fled.
Only their memories last; the reality long has departed,
Even as vanished the ice, touched by the breath of the thaw.