The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir :: :: University of Virginia Library

Slow clear away the misty shades of morn,
As sings the Redbreast on the window-sill;
Fade the last stars; the air is stern and still;
And lo! bright frost-work on the leafless thorn.
Why, Day-god, why so late? the tardy heaven
Brightens; and, screaming downwards to the shore
Of the waste sea, the dim-seen gulls pass o'er,
A scatter'd crowd, by natural impulse driven
Home to their element. All yesternight
From spongy ragged clouds pour'd down the rain,
And, in the wind gusts, on the window pane
Rattled aloud; but now the sky grows bright.
Winter! since thou must govern us again,
O, take not in fierce tyrannies delight.

II. SNOW-STORM.

How gloom the clouds! quite stifled is the ray,
Which from the conquer'd sun would vainly shoot
Through the blank storm; and, though the winds be mute,
Lo! down the whitening deluge finds its way:
Look up!—a thousand thousand fairy motes
Come dancing downwards, onwards, sideways whirl'd,
Like flecks of down, or apple-blossoms curl'd
By nipping winds. See how in ether floats
The light-wing'd mass—then, mantling o'er the field,
Changes at once the landscape, chokes the rill,
Hoaries with white the lately verdant hill,
And silvers earth. All to thine influence yield,
Stern conqueror of blithe Autumn: yearly still
Of thee, the dread avatar is reveal'd.

III. CLEAR FROST.

'Tis noon, the heaven is clear without a cloud;
And, on the masses of untrodden snow,
The inefficient sunbeams glance and glow:
Still is the mountain swathed in its white shroud:
But look along the lake!—hark to the hum
Of mingling crowds!—in graceful curves how swings
The air-poised skater—Mercury without wings!—
Rings the wide ice, a murmur never dumb;
While over all, in fits harmonious, come
The dulcet tones which Music landward flings.
There moves the ermined fair, with timid toe,
Half-pain'd, half-pleased. Yes! all is joy and mirth,
As if, though Frost could subjugate mean earth,
He had no chains to bind the spirit's flow.

IV. MOONLIGHT.

Behold the mountain peaks how sharply lined
Against the cloudless orient! while, serene,
The silver Moon, majestic as a queen,
Walks 'mid thin stars, whose lustre has declined.
There is no breath of wind abroad: the trees
Sleep in their stilly leaflessness; while, lost
In the pale, sparkling labyrinths of frost,
The wide world seems to slumber, and to freeze.
'Tis like enchanted fairyland! A chill
Steals o'er the heart, as, gazing thus on night,
Life from our lower world seems pass'd away;
And, in the witchery of the faint moonlight,
Silence comes down to hold perpetual sway;—
So breathless is the scene—so hush'd—so still!

V. CHANGE.

O! sweetly beautiful it is to mark
The virgin vernal Snow-drop, lifting up,
Meek as a nun, the whiteness of its cup
From earth's dead bosom, desolate and dark!
Glorious is Summer, with its rich array
Of blossom'd greenery, perfume-glowing bowers,
Blue skies, and balmy airs, and fruits, and flowers,
Bright sunshine, singing birds, and endless day!
Nor glorious less brown Autumn's witchery,
As by her golden trees Pomona sits,
And Ceres, as she wanders, hears by fits
The reapers' chant, beneath the mellowing sky!
But thy blasts, Winter, hymn a moral lay,
And, mocking Earth, bid Man's thoughts point on high.