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Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end.

The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed

In a tumultuous privacy of storm.

Come see the north-wind's masonry.
Out of an unseen quarry evermore
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
Curves his white bastions with projected roof
Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he
For number or proportion. Mockingly,
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn;
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate,
A tapering turret overtops the work:

And when his hours are numbered, and the world
Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work,
The frolic architecture of the snow.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.
(b 1806 d 1867)

ABSALOM.

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath
Was straightened for the grave: and as the folds
Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls

Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air:

His helm was at his feet, his banner, soiled
With trailing thro' Jerusalem, was laid
Reversed, beside him.

The mighty Joab stood beside the bier,
And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly,
As if he feared the slumberer might stir.
A slow step startled him: and the bent form
Of David entered, and he gave command,
In a low tone, to his few followers,

To leave him with the dead. The king stood still,
Till the last echo died: then throwing back
The pall from the still features of his child;
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:

"Alas, my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!

Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye,

And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son, and I am chill. As to my bosom I have tried to press thee How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee And hear thy sweet "My father" from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom!

"The grave hath won thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young;

And life will pass me in the mantling blush,
And the dark tresses to the soft wind flung;
But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come
To meet me, Absalom!

"And oh! when I am stricken, and my heart,

Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken,
How will its love for thee, as I depart,

Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token!
It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom,
To see thee, Absalom!

"And now farewell! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee: And thy dark sin! Oh! I could drink the cup,

If from this woe its bitterness had won thee.
May God have called thee like the wanderer home,
My erring Absalom!"

He covered up his face, and bowed himself
A moment on his child: then giving him
A look of melting tenderness, he clasped
His hands convulsively, as if in prayer;
And, as if strength were given him of God,
He rose up calmly, and composed the pall
Firmly and decently, and left him there,
As if his rest had been a breathing sleep.

THE LEPER.

"Room for the leper! room!"

And, as he came,

The cry passed on "Room for the leper! room!"

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Sunrise was slanting on the city gates

Rosy and beautiful, and from the hills

The early-risen poor were coming in
Duly and cheerfully to their toil; and up

Rose the sharp hammer's clink, and the far hum
Of moving wheels, and multitudes astir,
And all that in a city murmur swells.

"Room for the leper!" and aside they stood,
Matron, and child, and pitiless manhood - all
Who met him on the way and let him pass.

And onward thro' the open gate he came,
The leper with the ashes on his brow,
Sack-cloth about his loins, and on his lip
A covering, stepping painfully and slow;
And with a difficult utterance, like one
Whose heart is with an iron nerve put down,
Crying, "Unclean! Unclean!"

'Twas day-break now,

When at the altar of the temple stood

The holy priest of God. The incense-lamp

Burned with a struggling light, and a low chant
Swelled thro' the hollow arches of the roof,
Like an articulate wail; and there alone,
To ghastly thinness shrunk, the leper knelt.
The echoes of the melancholy strain

Died in the distant aisles, and he rose up,

Struggling with weakness, and bowed down his head Then, with his sack-cloth round him, and his lip

Hid in a loathsome covering, stood still

To hear his doom:

"Depart! depart, O child

Of Israel, from the temple of thy God!

For He hath smote thee with his chastening rod;

"And to the desert wild,

From all thou lovest, away thy feet must flee,
That from thy plague His people may be free.

"Depart! and come not near

The busy mart, nor pluck the yellow grain,
Nor milk the goat that browseth on the plain;

"Nor greeting stay to hear,

Nor lay thee down to sleep upon the sod.

Depart, O leper! and forget not God!"

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