With ice and snow the window-panes were bound,
Nor through their dimness could the earth appear,
And still in gusts the wind a passage found
Down the rude chimney with a roaring sound.
XVIII.
A voice divine it did to Williams seem;—
He sat awhile within himself retired,
Then seemed to rouse, as from a transient dream,
Just as the lamp's last flickering ray expired;
Around the room soft falls a quivering beam,
Cast from the brands that on the hearth are fired;
The tempest lulls apace, until he seems
To hear from neighboring woods the panther's screams.
XIX.
"But what is that?—a knocking?—and once more?
Some way-lost wanderer seeks a shelter here;
Ah, wretched man, amid the boisterous roar
Of snow and wind, thy sufferings are severe!"
He raised the bar that kept the outer door,
And with the snow-gust from the darkness drear,
A stranger entered, whose large garments bore
Proof of the storm in clinging snowflakes hoar.
XX.
Aged he seemed, and staff of length had he,
Which well would holy pilgrim have become,
But yet he sought, with quiet dignity
And easy step, the centre of the room;
Then by the glimmering light our Sire could see
His flowing beard, white as the lily's bloom;
Age had his temples scored; but,—glancing free,
As from the imprint of a century,
