Then go, thou sage, resigned and calm;
Amid thy low estate,
And to thy burrow bear the palm
For victory over fate.
We conquer, when we meekly bear
The lot we cannot shape,
And hug to death the ills and care
From which there ’s no escape.
[THE MOON OF A WINTRY NIGHT.]
Moon, thou art wading through the gathered snow,
That o’er us, on the fields of ether spread,
Threatens, ere morning to be here below,
To lie where our poor mortal feet must tread.
Thy face is muffled in a gelid haze,
That shrouds its lustre like a frozen veil;
And kills the twinkling of the starry rays,
Till all on high looks cheerless, dim, and pale.
It gives almost the ague, to behold
The skies so rayless, yet so far from dark;
As when our hearth’s white ashes, tired and cold,
We stir in vain to find one pleasant spark.
Yet, by to-morrow’s eve our parts may shift,
And thou be shining there, serene and clear,
While we are hedged by many a frigid drift;
Or sleigh-bells shrill may pierce the tingling ear.
How dreary then the scene for thy mild beams
To light, and for the burning stars to view!
The hard ice coating all the lakes and streams,
And one dead white where late gay flowerets grew.