TWO DECEMBERS.
Now o'er the Homeland dear,
Winter hurls a glittering spear,
While all the furies of the Arctic night,
Following his icy car's impetuous flight,
Scream in demoniac mirth,
As down the blast
They stream, aghast
Stands the fair Earth:
In vain the bowing woods a trembling homage pay;
Groaning, they see their bright wealth whirled away;
He flies o'er the streams, they stiffen!—fields, and lo!
Fear petrifies the clods. But hearth-fires glow;
And through long evenings, round the blaze,
Happy children raise
Merry defiance of the blustering king
Whose pæans frenzied winds and deep-voiced surges sing.
Sweet is December 'neath the southern sun:—
The morning music of the wak'ning glade;
The fiery Noon and pine-woods' purple shade;
The timid twilight beautiful but fleet;
The star-eyed balmy night whose gentle feet
Disturb no dreaming flower, so light they pass,
Nor shake one diamond from the dewy grass.
Sweet is December 'neath the Southern sun,
The cloudless blue!
