 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
343
DECEMBER.
“December came;—his aspect stern
Glared deadly o'er the mountain cairn;
A polar sheet was round him flung,
And ice-spears at his girdle hung.”
Ettrick Shepherd.
Glared deadly o'er the mountain cairn;
A polar sheet was round him flung,
And ice-spears at his girdle hung.”
Ettrick Shepherd.
Those snowy plumes become thee well,
Thou of the frost-embroidered mail!
Thy clarion hath a martial swell—
Last of the Twelve, all hail!
Thy savage couriers hither post,
And sounds I hear, as if a host
Were marching to the fight,
Or Ocean, on an iron coast,
Broke in his bellowing might.
Thou of the frost-embroidered mail!
Thy clarion hath a martial swell—
Last of the Twelve, all hail!
Thy savage couriers hither post,
And sounds I hear, as if a host
Were marching to the fight,
Or Ocean, on an iron coast,
Broke in his bellowing might.
The battle hath been fought and won,
And clouds, unlit by streaks of light,
The vanquished forces of the sun
Have covered in their flight;
Thy squadrons, of their triumph proud,
Make music, riotous and loud,
Among the windy hills,
Whose piny summits wear a shroud
Hiding the frozen rills.
And clouds, unlit by streaks of light,
The vanquished forces of the sun
Have covered in their flight;
Thy squadrons, of their triumph proud,
Make music, riotous and loud,
Among the windy hills,
Whose piny summits wear a shroud
Hiding the frozen rills.
When camest thou in other years,
And wooded was the scene around,
In rude log huts the Pioneers
A crazy shelter found:
While rafters rang with Winter's knock,
Wild bleatings of the folded flock
Their waking guardians told
That wolves, from swamp and caverned rock,
Rushed forth, by Night made bold.
And wooded was the scene around,
In rude log huts the Pioneers
A crazy shelter found:
While rafters rang with Winter's knock,
Wild bleatings of the folded flock
Their waking guardians told
That wolves, from swamp and caverned rock,
Rushed forth, by Night made bold.
344
“Our boy comes not!”—once rose the cry
Of a scared wife;—“Awake—arouse!”
Thus summoned, with a flashing eye,
Up-leaped her hardy spouse;
Snatching his musket from the wall,
Charged with buck-shot and deadly ball,
Though louder howled the pack,
He sallied out, while rang the fall
Of feet upon his track.
Of a scared wife;—“Awake—arouse!”
Thus summoned, with a flashing eye,
Up-leaped her hardy spouse;
Snatching his musket from the wall,
Charged with buck-shot and deadly ball,
Though louder howled the pack,
He sallied out, while rang the fall
Of feet upon his track.
Oh, watching mother! never more
Returned in life thy luckless child;
Fierce monsters held a revel o'er
His carcase in the wild:
Though hungry still, a frantic sire
Dispersed them in his dreadful ire,
And carried through the storm,
In arms that toil had strung with wire,
Homeward a bleeding form.
Returned in life thy luckless child;
Fierce monsters held a revel o'er
His carcase in the wild:
Though hungry still, a frantic sire
Dispersed them in his dreadful ire,
And carried through the storm,
In arms that toil had strung with wire,
Homeward a bleeding form.
Forget not perils sternly braved,
And hardships borne by men of old—
Their sweat bedewed, their blood-drops laved,
The dark, rich forest mould;
They won for us the gifts we prize—
These fields so beauteous to our eyes!
And bitter waters quaffed,
That we—oh! matchless enterprise!
Might taste a sweeter draught.
And hardships borne by men of old—
Their sweat bedewed, their blood-drops laved,
The dark, rich forest mould;
They won for us the gifts we prize—
These fields so beauteous to our eyes!
And bitter waters quaffed,
That we—oh! matchless enterprise!
Might taste a sweeter draught.
Bay on a victor's forehead placed—
What is it to their true renown?
The former but a phantom chased,
Treading Earth's brightness down;
The latter, into landscapes bright
Changing the vast domain of Night,
Have scattered golden grain;
And formed, with rugged hands, a site
For Learning's hallowed fane.
What is it to their true renown?
The former but a phantom chased,
Treading Earth's brightness down;
The latter, into landscapes bright
Changing the vast domain of Night,
Have scattered golden grain;
And formed, with rugged hands, a site
For Learning's hallowed fane.
345
Turn we, December, from the scene
Thy glance beheld in other days,
While milder grows thy warlike mien,
And high the fagots blaze:
Home hath a bright—a magic ring,
That, crossed, disarms thy wrath, oh, King!
Enwreathing with a smile,
Soft as the look of youthful Spring,
Thy bearded lip the while.
Thy glance beheld in other days,
While milder grows thy warlike mien,
And high the fagots blaze:
Home hath a bright—a magic ring,
That, crossed, disarms thy wrath, oh, King!
Enwreathing with a smile,
Soft as the look of youthful Spring,
Thy bearded lip the while.
List! Despot, in thy gentler mood,
While a few chiding words I speak;
Why vex with treatment harsh and rude,
The friendless and the weak?
Enough that man denies them bread—
Enough that no protecting shed
Bars out the freezing gale!
Why on the fallen basely tread,
A wight, in rags, assail?
While a few chiding words I speak;
Why vex with treatment harsh and rude,
The friendless and the weak?
Enough that man denies them bread—
Enough that no protecting shed
Bars out the freezing gale!
Why on the fallen basely tread,
A wight, in rags, assail?
The hunger-smitten orphan prayed
For mercy, at thy hands, in vain—
His head upon thy snow-wreath laid,
And never woke again;
It was a kindly act, I own!
To hush a famished infant's moan
That to its mother clung,
While winds, that chilled her heart to stone,
A white cloak o'er her flung.
For mercy, at thy hands, in vain—
His head upon thy snow-wreath laid,
And never woke again;
It was a kindly act, I own!
To hush a famished infant's moan
That to its mother clung,
While winds, that chilled her heart to stone,
A white cloak o'er her flung.
Why load with ills complaining Woe,
And add to Pain another pang?
Why let the beaten feel thy blow,
The bitten heart thy fang?
Why not a stinging lash apply
To wretches holding revel high,
Though Want a crumb implores,
And houseless, hopeless Misery
Lies sobbing at their doors?
And add to Pain another pang?
Why let the beaten feel thy blow,
The bitten heart thy fang?
Why not a stinging lash apply
To wretches holding revel high,
Though Want a crumb implores,
And houseless, hopeless Misery
Lies sobbing at their doors?
346
Thou lovest for the rich and strong,
Gay, glittering pathways to prepare,
While jingling bell and cracking thong
Their merriment declare;
And it is well that man should hear
Such notes the brumal desert cheer;
But in thine hour of ire
Spare a pale crowd, in places drear,
Begging for food and fire.
Gay, glittering pathways to prepare,
While jingling bell and cracking thong
Their merriment declare;
And it is well that man should hear
Such notes the brumal desert cheer;
But in thine hour of ire
Spare a pale crowd, in places drear,
Begging for food and fire.
The poor Old Year from thee receives
Rough usage in his dying hour;
Thus ever, when Misfortune grieves,
Is raised the scourge of Power;
Thy cruel minions—Hail and Sleet—
Enfold him in a winding sheet,
And laugh at his dismay,
Then shout—“Not far those tottering feet
Will bear thee on thy way!”
Rough usage in his dying hour;
Thus ever, when Misfortune grieves,
Is raised the scourge of Power;
Thy cruel minions—Hail and Sleet—
Enfold him in a winding sheet,
And laugh at his dismay,
Then shout—“Not far those tottering feet
Will bear thee on thy way!”
Old Father Christmas—King of Storms!—
Is chaplain to thy noisy train;
He loves a cordial glass that warms,
And chants a jolly strain;
His silver hair and rosy face
Give to his time-worn form a grace,
And children, with a bound,
Flock to enjoy his kind embrace,
While toys are scattered round.
Is chaplain to thy noisy train;
He loves a cordial glass that warms,
And chants a jolly strain;
His silver hair and rosy face
Give to his time-worn form a grace,
And children, with a bound,
Flock to enjoy his kind embrace,
While toys are scattered round.
He tells a tale of other times,
Each wild imp dancing on his knees,
Or loudly singing quaint old rhymes,
His auditory please;
Sad are full many little hearts
When, taking up his staff, departs
The venerable sage,
Whose glance a beam benignant darts,
Lending a charm to age.
Each wild imp dancing on his knees,
Or loudly singing quaint old rhymes,
His auditory please;
Sad are full many little hearts
When, taking up his staff, departs
The venerable sage,
Whose glance a beam benignant darts,
Lending a charm to age.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |