The wood-pile, too, is playing hide;
The axe, the log,

The kennel of that friend so tried,

(The old watch-dog,)

The grindstone standing by its side.
All now incog.

The bustling cock looks out aghast
From his high shed;

No spot to scratch him a repast

Up curves his head,

Starts the dull hamlet with a blast,

And back to bed.

Old drowsy dobbin, at the call,

Amazed, awakes;

Out from the window of his stall

A view he takes;

While thick and faster seem to fall

The silent flakes.

The barn-yard gentry, musing, chime
Their morning moan;

Like Memnon's music of old time

That voice of stone!

So marbled they-and so sublime

Their solemn tone.

Good Ruth has called the younker folk

To dress below;

Full welcome was the word she spoke,

Down, down they go,

The cottage quietude is broke,

The snow!-the snow!

Now rises from around the fire
A pleasant strain;

Ye giddy sons of mirth, retire!

And ye profane!

A hymn to the Eternal Sire

Goes up again.

The patriarchal Book divine,

Upon the knee,

Opes where the gems of Judah shine,

(Sweet minstrelsie!)

How soars each heart with each fair line,

Oh God, to Thee!

Around the altar low they bend,

Devout in prayer;

As snows upon the roof descend,

So angels there

Come down that household to defend

With gentle care.

Now sings the kettle o'er the blaze;

The buckwheat heaps;

Rare Mocha, worth an Arab's praise.

Sweet Susan steeps;

The old round stand her nod obeys,
And out it leaps.

Unerring presages declare

The banquet near;

Soon busy appetites are there;

And disappear

The glories of the ample fare,

With thanks sincere.

Now tiny snow-birds venture nigh

From copse and spray,

(Sweet strangers! with the winter's sky

To pass away;)

And gather crumbs in full supply,

For all the day.

Let now the busy hours begin :

Out rolls the churn;

Forth hastes the farm-boy, and brings in

The brush to burn;

Sweep, shovel, scour, sew, knit, and spin,

'Till night's return.

To delve his threshing John must hie;

His sturdy shoe

Can all the subtle damp defy:

How wades he through!

While dainty milkmaids slow and shy,

His track pursue.

Each to the hour's allotted care;

To shell the corn;

The broken harness to repair;

The sleigh t' adorn;

As cheerful, tranquil, frosty, fair,

Speeds on the morn.

While mounts the eddying smoke amain

From many a hearth,

And all the landscape rings again

With rustic mirth;

So gladsome seems to every swain

The snowy earth.

BLESSINGS on the blessing children, sweetest gifts of Heaven to earth,
Filling all the heart with gladness, filling all the house with mirth;
Bringing with them native sweetness, pictures of the primal bloom
Which the bliss for ever gladdens, of the region whence they come;
Bringing with them joyous impulse of a state withouten care,
And a buoyant faith in being, which makes all in nature fair;
Not a doubt to dim the distance, not a grief to vex the nigh,
And a hope that in existence, finds each hour a luxury;

Going singing, bounding, brightening-never fearing as they go,
That the innocent shall tremble, and the loving find a foe;

In the daylight, in the starlight, still with thought that freely flies,
Prompt and joyous, with no question of the beauty in the skies;
Genial fancies winning raptures, as the bee still sucks her store,
All the present still a garden glean'd a thousand times before;
All the future, but a region, where the happy serving thought,
Still depicts a thousand blessings, by the wingéd hunter caught;
Life a chase where blushing pleasures only seem to strive in flight,
Lingering to be caught, and yielding gladly to the proud delight;
As the maiden, through the alleys, looking backward as she flies,
Woos the fond pursuer onward, with the love-light in her eyes.
Oh! the happy life in children, still restoring joy to ours,
Making for the forest music, planting for the wayside flowers;
Back recalling all the sweetness, in a pleasure pure as rare,
Back the past of hope and rapture bringing to the heart of care.
How, as swell the happy voices, bursting through the shady grove,
Memories take the place of sorrows, time restores the sway to love!
We are in the shouting comrades, shaking off the load of years,
Thought forgetting, strifes and trials, doubts and agonies and tears;
We are in the bounding urchin, as o'er hill and plain he darts,
Share the struggle and the triumph, gladdening in his heart of hearts;
What an image of the vigour and the glorious grace we knew,
When to eager youth from boyhood, at a single bound we grew!
Even such our slender beauty, such upon our check the glow,
In our eyes the life and gladness-of our blood the overflow.
Bless the mother of the urchin! in his form we see her truth:
He is now the very picture of the memories in our youth;
Never can we doubt the forehead, nor the sunny flowing hair,
Nor the smiling in the dimple speaking chin and cheek so fair:
Bless the mother of the young one! he hath blended in his grace,
All the hope and joy and beauty, kindling once in either face!

Oh! the happy faith of children! that is glad in all it sees,
And with never need of thinking, pierces still its mysteries;
In simplicity profoundest, in their soul abundance blest,
Wise in value of the sportive, and in restlessness at rest;