The wind it blew cold, and the ice was thick,
Deeper and deeper the snowdrifts grew;
A young mother lay in her cottage, sick,—
Her needs were many, her comforts few.
Clasped to her breast was a newborn child,
Unknowing, unmindful of weal or woe;
And away, far away, in the tempest wild,
Was a husband and father, kneedeep in the snow.
All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

The lamp burned low, and the fire was dead,
And the snow sifted in through each crevice and crack:
As she tossed and turned in her lowly bed,
And murmured, "Good Lord, bring my husband back."
The clocks in the city had told the hour
With a single stroke, for young was the day
But no swelling note from the loftiest tower,
Could reach that lone cot where a mother lay.
All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

High on the moorland that crowned the hill,
Bewildered, benumbed, midst the snow, so deep,
Fighting for life with a desperate will,
Lost,—wearied and worn, and oppressed with sleep,
Was the husband and father, with grief almost wild,
Bearing cordials and medicine safely bestowed,
That he'd been to obtain for his wife and child;—
Then exhausted he sank.—And it snowed,—and it snowed.
All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

The sun arose on a world so white,
That glistened and sparkled beneath his ray:
And the children's faces looked just as bright,
As they cried, "What a glorious Christmas day!"
In a lowly cot lay a stiff white form,—
And all was still, save a pitiful wail;—
No more should that mother fear sickness or storm;—
Together, two spirits sped through the dark vale.
All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

Friends who were coming to bring good cheer,
Found a young babe sucking a cold white breast.
Noiselessly, reverently, gathering near,
The orphan to full hearts was lovingly pressed.
The parents were laid side by side in the grave,
And the babe grew in beauty of face and of form;
And they still call her Snowdrop, the name that they gave,—
Sweet Snowdrop,—the frail little flower of the storm.
All on a Christmas morning, long ago.

Once Upon a Time.

When dull November's misty shroud,
All Nature's charms depress,
Flinging a damp, dark, deadening cloud,
O'er each heart's joyousness.
Our fancies quit their lighter vein,
And out from Memory's shrine,
We marshal thoughts of grief and pain,
Known,—once upon a time.

'Tis then that faces, long forgot,
In shadows reappear;—
Voices, that once we heeded not,
Come whispering in the ear;
And ghosts of friends whom once we met,
When life was in its prime,
Recall acts we would fain forget,
Done,—once upon time.

Regretfull sighs for thoughtless deeds,
That worked another wrong;
Vows that we broke, like rotten reeds
Like spectres glide along;
Tears naught avail to heal the smart,
We caused—nor deemed it crime,
Whilst selfishly we wrung a heart,
Loved,—once upon a time.

Oh, could we but, as on we go,
Care more for other's weal,
Nor deem all joys earth can bestow,
Are but for us to feel;
Then howe'er humble, howe'er poor,
Our lives would be sublime,
Nor should we dread to ponder o'er,
Days,—once upon a time.