More and more near the iron chariots bound,
Falling and falling from the clouds; anon,
As from Heav'n's door the water-floods came down,
His howling horn the hurricano wound
To the lorn night. O Thou, in calm profound,
Who in us and about us hast Thy throne,
Pity the houseless traveller, dark and lone,
While the fork'd flash leaves tenfold night around.
Pity the seaman in an hour so rude,
Who, toss'd on the wave's neck to Heav'n's dark hall
From th' yawning Erebus, thinks of his cot,
And bright fire-side. Pity him most of all,
Who in the nook of housed quietude
Hears the big chainless winds, and thanks Thee not.
Calm and still hour, how coldly beautiful!
Above-the Moon in the most dark serene,
With all her stars; below-one varied scene
Of wild resplendency, gentle as wool,
Or kingly ermine; storied pine-trees, full
Loaded with hanging beauty, towers of green
Erewhile, now snowy pyramids are seen,
With stars that peep between. Nature's soft rule,
Dropping the shadow-like and noiseless shower
Of shelter, on the night and wintry hour,
Making them lovely! 'Tis the same doth swage
Sorrow's keen edge, and builds for silvery age
A snow-embower'd and hoary hermitage,
The covering of an unseen holy Power.
THE EVENING AFTER A SNOW-STORM.
The wind and snow, which on the hedge-row clings,
Have been at play, and shapes of beauteous mould,
Their tricks of vagrant fantasy unfold;
Haply in semblance of celestial things.
Where now the Sun his parting lustre flings,
Careful to spare, innocuous and cold;
He sees below all silvery pure, and brings
The skies in gentle rivalry to gold,
Staining the clouds that tend his ev'ning bow'r.
O Lord, if thus so marvellously fair,
The things Thou doest for one passing hour,
So delicately gentle, soft, and pure,
Then what must be those scenes which shall endure,
And those Thy mansions which eternal are?
Thus wonderfully fashion'd, soft and still,
Whatever takes the impress of Thy hand;
All things to Thee are yielding as the sand:
Obediently Thy summons they fulfil,
And take the forms of Thy creative will.
Whether the Wind is loud at Thy command,
Or the dread Lightnings traverse sea and land,
They bear Thy gentle rein. When bent on ill,
Passions of men are fierce and turbulent,
They but perform Thy good and sweet intent,
Knowing it not. Whether in vernal sky
Thou walkest forth, or the loud-pealing storm
Makest Thy chariot, when Thou art gone by,
Thy mantle's skirts are seen in fairest form.
The trees stand patiently in wintry mood,
Death's shadow, their lost glories round them thrown,
And with dank creaking arms, and leafless crown,
Bow to the moaning spirit of the wood.
Thus through this strange and mute vicissitude,
Summer and Winter, Day and Night, at length
They gather storied height, beauty and strength,
Green comeliness and glory. What, though strew'd
Our path with joys decayed, no gleam above
Upon our sorrow's winter! Blessed Lord,
'Tis thus through joy and woe, Time's varied scroll,
Bright beams, and the withholdings of Thy love,
Thou buildest up Thy children, till the soul
Gather the stature of Thy living Word.
4 This thought is from Mr. James Bonnel.
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