 | Rural sketches and poems |  |
234
LINES
On the death of an old man who perished in the snow-storm of 1844.
O'er Freeborough hill, and Stanghow wood,
O'er Moorsholm moor the wind blew cold,
The raven hoarsely scream'd for food,
The beasts stood trembling in the fold—
O'er Moorsholm moor the wind blew cold,
The raven hoarsely scream'd for food,
The beasts stood trembling in the fold—
Whilst whirling high, dense flakes of snow
Fell fast about that aged man,
The wintry tempests wildly blow,
More fiercely round his temples wan.
Fell fast about that aged man,
The wintry tempests wildly blow,
More fiercely round his temples wan.
Night came, the glimmering beams decline,
No sheltering roof, no cottage near,
There's not a star in heaven doth shine
Nor taper's lonely welcome here.
No sheltering roof, no cottage near,
There's not a star in heaven doth shine
Nor taper's lonely welcome here.
Fast onwards, like a rushing wave
The fleecy snows rush drifting on,—
Ah, cold and chill will be thy grave
Poor wanderer, ere the morning sun!
The fleecy snows rush drifting on,—
Ah, cold and chill will be thy grave
Poor wanderer, ere the morning sun!
235
Now blacker glooms the scowling night
And wilder, drearer, spreads the moor
Blast follows blast with gathering might,
And eddying drifts confound him sore.
And wilder, drearer, spreads the moor
Blast follows blast with gathering might,
And eddying drifts confound him sore.
Nought doth he hear, nought doth he see,
Still feebler grows the old man's tread,—
Save but the storms that wander free;
It is the silence of the dead.
Still feebler grows the old man's tread,—
Save but the storms that wander free;
It is the silence of the dead.
His eyes grow faint, his eyeballs dim,
What hope, what solace is their nigh,
Pale Phantoms o'er his vision swim—
He sinks upon the heath to die.
What hope, what solace is their nigh,
Pale Phantoms o'er his vision swim—
He sinks upon the heath to die.
Alas, the sights that hover near
His cottage hearth, his blazing fire,
His weeping wife so lov'd, so dear,
His children wailing for their sire.
His cottage hearth, his blazing fire,
His weeping wife so lov'd, so dear,
His children wailing for their sire.
The snows lie chill upon his brow
The gathering tempests stop his breath—
Is it an angel greets him now?—
'Tis Azrael,—'tis the angel Death!
The gathering tempests stop his breath—
Is it an angel greets him now?—
'Tis Azrael,—'tis the angel Death!
Yet, often shall the housewife tell
His story by the winter grate,
And aged shepherds' sadly dwell
Upon his uncomplaining fate.
His story by the winter grate,
And aged shepherds' sadly dwell
Upon his uncomplaining fate.
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