And laugh of glee, and song of mirth, then wreathe their merry twine.
We think not how the dashing sleet beats on the crusted pane,
We care not though the drifting snow whirls o’er the heath amain;
But haply, while our hearts are bright, far struggling through the waste,
Some traveller seeks our window’s light, with long and fruitless haste.
Hark his halloo! we leave the fire, and hurry forth to save:
A short half hour, and he had found beneath the snow a grave.
Pile on the wood!—feed high the flame!—bring out our choicest store!
The traveller’s heart grows warm again; his spirit droops no more.
J. G. P.