HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. 263.-LET WINTER COME. WINTER, like every other season, has its appropriate sentiments, but suited to the mood of the poet's mind. It suggests pictures of home comfort: Let Winter come! let polar spirits sweep The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep! The ice-chain'd waters slumbering on the shore, Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictur'd wall! CAMPBELL. Even its gloom has its inspiration of solemn musings, such as Burns has Deautifully described:—“ As I am what the men of the world, if they knew such a man, would call a whimsical mortal, I have various sources of pleasure and enjoyment, which are, in a manner, peculiar to myself, or some here and there such other out-of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar pleasure I take in the season of winter, more than the rest of the year. This, I believe, may be partly owing to my misfortunes giving my mind a melancholy cast: but there is something even in the Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste, Abrupt, and deep stretch'd o'er the buried earth, which raises the mind to a serious solemnity, favorable to everything great and noble. There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more-I do not VOL. IV. 1 know if I should call it pleasure-but something which exalts me, something which enraptures me-than to walk in the sheltered side of a wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy winter day, and hear the stormy wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best season for devotion: my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him who, in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, 'walks on the wings of the wind.' In one of these seasons, just after a train of misfortunes, I composed the following: The wintry west extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw: Or the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw: While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day. The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast, Let others fear, to me more dear Than all the pride of May: The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine! Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil; Here firm I rest, they must be best, Because they are Thy will! This one request of mine!) Winter calls up the personifications of the painter-poets: ~ Lastly, came Winter, clothed all in frieze, Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freeze, For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld; That scarce his loosed limbs he able was to weld.-SPENSER. Winter sets the poetical observer to his natural descriptions : It was frosty winter season, And fair Flora's wealth was geason." * Meads that erst with green were spread, Had tawny veils; cold had scanted When I saw a shepherd fold Sheep in cote to shun the cold; "Love is folly, when astray."-GREENE. The wrathful winter, hast'ning on apace, * Geason, rare, uncommon. With chilling cold had pierced the tender green; The gladsome groves that now lay overthrown, The soil that erst so seemly was to seen, Was all despoiled of her beauties' hue; And soot fresh flowers (wherewith the summer's Queen The winter's wrath, wherewith each thing defaced, Hawthorn had lost his motley livery; The naked twigs were shivering all for cold; Each thing (methought) with weeping eye me told Myself within, for I was gotten out Into the fields, whereas I walk'd about.-SACKVILLE. The modern bard moralizes on winter in unrhymed lyrics: Though now no more the musing ear That lingers o'er the green-wood shade Sweet are the harmonies of Spring, Sweet is the Summer's evening gale, And sweet the autumnal winds that shake The many-color'd grove. And pleasant to the sober'd soul The silence of the wintry scene, When Nature shrouds herself, entranced In deep tranquillity. Not undelightful now to roam The wild heath, sparkling on the sight; |