I hear December's biting blast,I see the slippery hail-drops fall—That shot which frost-sprites laughing castIn some great Arctic arsenal;I lean my cheek against the pane,But start away, it is so chill,And almost pity tree and plainFor bearing Winter's load of ill.The sombre sky hangs dark and low,It looks a couch where mists are born—A throne whence they in clusters flow,Or by the tempest's wrath are torn.I turn me to the chamber's Heart,Low pulsing like a vague desire,And strike an ebon block apart,Till up there springs a Tongue of Fire!It hath a jovial roaring tone,Like one rebuking half in jest—Yet ah! I wish there could be shewnThe wisdom that it hath exprest—Or sinking to a lambent glow,Its arched and silent cavern seemsA magic glass whereon to shew,And shape anew, our broken dreams!I vow the Fiery Tongue hath caughtQuaint echoes of the passing time;Thus laughs it at my idle thought,My longing for a fairer clime:'So—so you'd like some southern shore,To gather flowers the winter through,As if there were on earth no moreFor busy human hands to do!'And guard your Own!—In this, oh markHigh duty and the world's far fate;Thou art poor deluged Europe's Ark,Her fortunes on Thy Safety wait;And—couching lion at her feet—In all her matron graces drest,Let free Britannia smiling greetHer radiant Daughter of the West!'The broad Atlantic flows between,But love can bridge the ends of earth;Of all the lands my race have seen,These two the rest are more than worth;Not for their skies, or fruits, or gold,But for their sturdy growth of Man,Who walks erect, and will not holdHis life beneath a tyrant's ban.'Yet do not curl your lips with scornThat others are not great as ye;Your fathers fought ere ye were born,And died that thus it now should be!I tell ye, spirits walk unseen,Excepting by the soul's strong sight;Hampden and Washington, I ween,Are leaders yet in Freedom's fight!'It ceased; but oh, Its words of fireHad dropped upon my Northman's heart,Rebuked a moment's vain desire,And slain it like a hunter's dart;Oh, welcome now the slippery hail,And welcome winter's biting blast,Ye braced our sires; they still prevailWho triumphed through the stormy past.And as beside the ruddy blazeWe muse or talk of mighty things,In clarion tone one little phraseStill through the heart's deep echoes rings:'Our Hearths—our Homes—beyond compare!'Those charmèd circles whence there riseThe steadfast souls that do and dare,And shape a Nation's destinies!There, pile the fagots high—aslant—And let them crackle out their hymn;There is no logic—that I grant—In wilful words of woman's whim:And yet I feel the links that glide'Twixt English Hearths and Liberty,And track how We—our truest pride—Firstsheltered Her Divinity!—Ladies' Companion.
I hear December's biting blast,I see the slippery hail-drops fall—That shot which frost-sprites laughing castIn some great Arctic arsenal;I lean my cheek against the pane,But start away, it is so chill,And almost pity tree and plainFor bearing Winter's load of ill.
The sombre sky hangs dark and low,It looks a couch where mists are born—A throne whence they in clusters flow,Or by the tempest's wrath are torn.I turn me to the chamber's Heart,Low pulsing like a vague desire,And strike an ebon block apart,Till up there springs a Tongue of Fire!
It hath a jovial roaring tone,Like one rebuking half in jest—Yet ah! I wish there could be shewnThe wisdom that it hath exprest—Or sinking to a lambent glow,Its arched and silent cavern seemsA magic glass whereon to shew,And shape anew, our broken dreams!
I vow the Fiery Tongue hath caughtQuaint echoes of the passing time;Thus laughs it at my idle thought,My longing for a fairer clime:'So—so you'd like some southern shore,To gather flowers the winter through,As if there were on earth no moreFor busy human hands to do!
'And guard your Own!—In this, oh markHigh duty and the world's far fate;Thou art poor deluged Europe's Ark,Her fortunes on Thy Safety wait;And—couching lion at her feet—In all her matron graces drest,Let free Britannia smiling greetHer radiant Daughter of the West!
'The broad Atlantic flows between,But love can bridge the ends of earth;Of all the lands my race have seen,These two the rest are more than worth;Not for their skies, or fruits, or gold,But for their sturdy growth of Man,Who walks erect, and will not holdHis life beneath a tyrant's ban.
'Yet do not curl your lips with scornThat others are not great as ye;Your fathers fought ere ye were born,And died that thus it now should be!I tell ye, spirits walk unseen,Excepting by the soul's strong sight;Hampden and Washington, I ween,Are leaders yet in Freedom's fight!'
It ceased; but oh, Its words of fireHad dropped upon my Northman's heart,Rebuked a moment's vain desire,And slain it like a hunter's dart;Oh, welcome now the slippery hail,And welcome winter's biting blast,Ye braced our sires; they still prevailWho triumphed through the stormy past.
And as beside the ruddy blazeWe muse or talk of mighty things,In clarion tone one little phraseStill through the heart's deep echoes rings:'Our Hearths—our Homes—beyond compare!'Those charmèd circles whence there riseThe steadfast souls that do and dare,And shape a Nation's destinies!
There, pile the fagots high—aslant—And let them crackle out their hymn;There is no logic—that I grant—In wilful words of woman's whim:And yet I feel the links that glide'Twixt English Hearths and Liberty,And track how We—our truest pride—Firstsheltered Her Divinity!
—Ladies' Companion.
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