Now from these vital scenes we turn without

Now from these vital scenes we turn without, To other charms the wintry hours present: The winds are blowing, and the stars are out, Cold twinkling from the sable firmament: The Northern lights in shifting brightness show, Which brightness though shows not the cause of it; Haply the skating-fire of Esquimaux, Or it may be the flashes of their wit.

The cold and rain have joined their properties, And on the ponds a sheeny splendor laid; The lusty youth have summoned their allies, And hither have their noisy errands made. Lo! now the snapping bonfire, rich and fierce Upflaring, throws its light and warmth around; And o’er the cracking and loud rumbling ice, The boisterous shout and clatt’ring skates resound.

And oft our girls are sprinkled in the crowd, (And temper rudeness with their beauty sweet) For what avails the wind, or cold, or cloud, When in the country youth and pleasure meet? The heart of youth is nature’s boiling-spring, Impelling high its heated blood and round; Its sparkling spray sweet colors everything, With colors though which often do confound.

Some farmer’s house, full lighted, sweetly throws Inviting glances from its window eyes— Such eyes as shine beneath New England’s brows, And speak the heart wherein her grandeur lies: And how these kindly invitations call, And cheering urge the neighbors on their way, Till ’neath his roof are gaily gathered all, To share an evening’s hospitality!

Kindly and free the neighboring homes convene; And though the while the vacant house be dark, Each home, from this bright home-uniting scene, Will carry back a new and brighter spark. So should the heart, when social love invite, Close up and leave her lonely house and drear; Rake up the fire, blow out the feeble light, And in some other bosom find a cheer.

Or haply now the District School House swells, Into the heart of night, its shining floods, While laughing groups and merry chiming bells, Are slowly nearing on the distant roads; Behold the choosers take their wonted nook, And note their shrewd and anxious choosing calls; Then see the master glean the spelling book, And pass the products ’round the crowded walls.

Or the defaced and ancient walls may ring (Walls ever fair and sacred to us all, While yet our hearts, refreshed from childhood’s spring. The dawning time and careless hour recall), From the loud chorus of the country round, Directed by the singing-master’s care; Or may these walls in reverent awe resound With accents of the country pastor’s prayer.

That district School House! sacred is its form! The cradle of New England culture keen, Rocked in th’ invigorating wind and storm, As since, the hearts that labored there have been! Recline not o’er its surplus benches now The motley throng that gathered here of yore, When, harvest done, and silent was the plow, Our fathers came to share its wholesome lore.

Of learning may more gorgeous systems shine And shame the School House from its parent hill, (The Alma Mater that is dearly mine; And where I felt the first aspiring thrill) Unshaken still, its influence remains, Based on that hardy worth it helped to rear; The light reflected from its scanty panes Came fresh from heaven, and is immortal here.

Oh! let my breast a longer season thrill, As to my thought one treasured roof appears! Oh! let my soul once more that structure fill, And hang the garlands of my love and tears! Faces and forms I there espy of old; Nor in the garments wove by time and care; Nor in the cerements of the crumbling mould; But as I saw their youth and beauty there.

And, ere I can th’ impatient theme resume, One other school room brightens in my breast, Where, from her long recess within the tomb, One darling form is to my bosom pressed. Sweet angel! thy immortal part has shone Long in my breast, and now corrosive Death Seems yielding all he ever called his own, Fresh blooming in thy bosom-heaving breath.

Still down thy neck that tress of raven hue Hangs like the parted cloud o’er heaven’s brow, Through which would oft my youthful fancy view Thine eyes as suns, that shine upon me now: Like zephyrs on New England’s flowery hills, Still on thy lips abound those gentle sighs; That ruddy hue thy cheek of beauty fills, Like rising day upon the early skies.

Lo! this is Saturday’s descending sun; And home is with anticipation bright, Turned fondly toward some dear and absent one, Who from his toil and care returns to-night. How welcome is thy parting, Sun of time, Where at thy set another son will come; Or when the daughter’s bosom-shining clime, Thy setting brings, in weekly brightness home.

Sweet home! the casket of the human breast, Where feeling’s sweetest smiles and tears are lain; Where all our dearest hopes and mem’ries rest, And all the surest remedies for pain. Completed is the tender circle now, Dissevered lately by some neighb’ring town; A brighter light is shown upon each brow— A light reflected never from a crown.

The hearth is now in extra measure fed; The table tidier and more fully dressed; The well-trimmed lamps a brighter lustre shed; To cheer and welcome home the kindred guest; The children haste the happ’nings to convey, Or take some present for their joy designed; The faithful dog shows gladness in his way, And Puss is pleased another lap to find.

The home a full and shining circle show. Save in some part a wand’ring shadow lay, Where Death broke in the circle long ago, And bore a darling from the scene away: In yonder yard, where winters vainly rave, Some form, once lighting here, now wasting lies; Whose smiles and tears are frozen in the grave, Forever paled whose home-illuming eyes.

But memory unbars the frozen tomb, And, like the life, refills the vacant chair; Kindly restores each death-imprisoned bloom And wakes again the silent voices there; While the fond spirit, life and light of all, Lives in her prestige, ’bove the Spoiler’s power; Her deathless smile upon each heart will fall And light this home unto its latest hour.

The gentle hours of evening onward flow, And happily they pass the week’s decline, With hearth yet warm, and lamps that brightly glow, Till now their beams o’er midnight’s valley shine; When all the members hie them to repose; Full shortly is the chamber drap’ry drawn; Now kindly sleep does Nature’s curtains close And softly nurse her till the tardy morn.

Such is the slumber vagrants fain would prove; Such is the slumber monarchs vainly crave; Though loud the cold is cracking in the roof, And loud the winds around the windows rave: No sounding pavements ruffle the repose; No riot fears the pillow’s calm profane, But smoothly on the stream of slumber flows Until it floods the morning’s shiny plain.