HE SKY-sometimes gentle, sometimes capricious, sometimes awful, never the same for two moments together; almost human in its passions, almost spiritual in its tenderness, almost divine in its infinity-its appeal to what is immortal in us is as distinct as its ministry of chastisement or of blessing to what is mortal, is essential. IT SNOWS. T snows!" cries the School-boy, "Hurrah!" and Is ringing through parlor and hall, It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy; Proud wealth has no pleasure, I trow, Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy, Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs, And nearer and nearer his soft cushioned chair Oh! small is the pleasure existence can give, "It snows!" cries the Traveler, "Ho!" and the word Blest thought! how it lightens the grief-laden hour, That those we love dearest are safe from its power! "It snows!" cries the Belle, "Dear, how lucky!" and turns From her mirror to watch the flakes fall; Like the first rose of summer, her dimpled cheek burns, While musing on sleigh-ride and ball: There are visions of conquests, of splendor, and mirth, Floating over each drear winter's day; But the tintings of Hope, on this storm-beaten earth, Will melt like the snow-flakes away: Turn, turn thee to Heaven, fair maiden, for bliss; That world has a pure fount ne'er opened in this. "It snows!" cries the Widow, "Oh God!" and her sighs Have stifled the voice of her prayer; Its burden you'll read, in her tear-swollen eyes, On her cheek sunk with fasting and care. 'Tis night, and her fatherless ask her for bread, But" He gives the young ravens their food," And she trusts, till her dark hearth adds horror to dread, And she lays on her last chip of wood. Poor sufferer! that sorrow thy God only knows; "Tis a most bitter lot to be poor, when it snows! MRS. S. J. HALE. GLIMPSES OF NATURE. INVOCATION TO NATURE. ARTH, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood! Your love, and recompense the boon with If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even, And Winter robing with pure snow and crowns I consciously have injured, but still loved PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. HAT is there more sublime than the trackless, desert, all-surrounding, unfathomable sea? What is there more peacefully sublime than the calm, gently-heaving, silent sea? What is there more terribly sublime than the angry, dashing, foaming sea? Power -resistless, overwhelming power-is its attribute and its expression, whether in the careless, conscious grandeur of its deep rest, or the wild tumult of its excited wrath. |