 | The British Months |  |
Danger of travelling. The trackless plain. The lost traveller. Drifting of the snow. Filling up of roads, lanes, &c. Woman buried in the snow. Her history admonitory
His journey o'er the lonely snow,
Where mile on mile extended lies,
Before his faint and failing eyes,
478
No track is there of custom'd wain;
Or horses' hoofs, his puzzled view
To guide; or peasant's nailed shoe;
Or sheep-dog's foot, that o'er the wold
Might lead him to the shepherd's fold.
So on he fares his doubtful way,
Perplex'd, and more and more astray:
So on he fares, with gazing blind,
With aching heart, and wilder'd mind:
So on he fares, with feet that keep
Weak hold and frail, till slumber creep
O'er his spent frame, in deadly league
With cold, and hunger, and fatigue:
And down, o'erspent, o'erwhelm'd, he sinks,
In wild delirious vision thinks
He sees at hand his cottage door,
And sleeps, to wake on earth no more!
Or where along the mountain's side,
Or cavern'd chalk-pit yawning wide,
Or hollow lane, in cloudy drift
Aloft the eddying whirlwinds lift
The snow. O'er gates, and fencing pales,
Banks, hedges, walls, the mass prevails.
Heap piled on heap, and wreath on wreath,
Ascending grows: while far beneath
Conceal'd the treacherous pit-fall lies,
Prepar'd to catch with dread surprise
The way-worn traveller, and inhume
Its victim in the unwonted tomb.
479
Such piteous fate was hers, whose name
Has gain'd a melancholy fame,
Her Christmas hearth's enlivening cheer
Chang'd for the snow-wreath'd cavern drear.
Eight days within her lonely cell
Immur'd she lay; and twice the bell,
Which told the sabbath's holy time,
Smote on her ear with mournful chime.
O, then how heav'd her breast to join
The train, that sought God's sacred shrine:
“Ev'n as the hart doth pant to lave,
O'erhunted, in the cooling wave !”
And, O, what joy were hers, to raise
In God's own house the voice of praise:
“Ev'n as the dove delights to rest
Still in her own accustom'd nest !”
Has gain'd a melancholy fame,
Her Christmas hearth's enlivening cheer
Chang'd for the snow-wreath'd cavern drear.
Eight days within her lonely cell
Immur'd she lay; and twice the bell,
Which told the sabbath's holy time,
Smote on her ear with mournful chime.
O, then how heav'd her breast to join
The train, that sought God's sacred shrine:
“Ev'n as the hart doth pant to lave,
O'erhunted, in the cooling wave !”
And, O, what joy were hers, to raise
In God's own house the voice of praise:
“Ev'n as the dove delights to rest
Still in her own accustom'd nest !”
O, had she erst, in safety's hour,
Confess'd religion's guiding pow'r;
God's house each former sabbath sought,
And practis'd what his precepts taught:
Not now perhaps her lot had been
The prison dark, the anguish keen,
Eight tedious days, eight weary nights,
Estrang'd from life, and life's delights,
To feel in cheerless, hopeless gloom,
Alive the horrors of the tomb.
And, render'd back to light and air,
Not hers the lot had been to bear
A feeble, mutilated frame,
Diseas'd, emaciate, helpless, lame;
A spectacle of woe to lie
A few brief months, and pine, and die.
Watch! when the sparkling wine is up,
And flames, and dances in the cup ;
Lest unawares that unknown day
Come and arrest you! “Watch and pray !”—
Confess'd religion's guiding pow'r;
God's house each former sabbath sought,
And practis'd what his precepts taught:
Not now perhaps her lot had been
The prison dark, the anguish keen,
Eight tedious days, eight weary nights,
Estrang'd from life, and life's delights,
To feel in cheerless, hopeless gloom,
Alive the horrors of the tomb.
And, render'd back to light and air,
Not hers the lot had been to bear
A feeble, mutilated frame,
Diseas'd, emaciate, helpless, lame;
480
A few brief months, and pine, and die.
Watch! when the sparkling wine is up,
And flames, and dances in the cup ;
Lest unawares that unknown day
Come and arrest you! “Watch and pray !”—
| The British Months | |