While I have a home, and can do as I will,
December may rage over ocean and hill,
And batter my door—as he does once a year—
I laugh at his storming, and give him good cheer.
Derry down, &c.
I’ve a trencher and cup, and something to ask
A friend to sit down to—and then a good flask:
The best of all methods, to make Winter smile,
Is living as I do—in old English style.
Derry down, &c.
Now—whoever regards a comfortable fire, in an old-fashioned cottage, as a pleasant sight, will be pleased by this [sketch], as a cheerful illustration of the dreary season; nor may it be deemed too intrusive, perhaps, to mention, that the artist who drew and engraved it, is Mr. Samuel Williams.
In this, the last, month of the year “the beautiful Spring is almost forgotten in the anticipation of that which is to come. The bright Summer is no more thought of, than is the glow of the morning sunshine at night-fall. The rich Autumn only just lingers on the memory, as the last red rays of its evenings do when they have but just quitted the eye. And Winter is once more closing its cloud-canopy over all things, and breathing forth that sleep-compelling breath which is to wrap all in a temporary oblivion, no less essential to their healthful existence than is the active vitality which it for a while supersedes.” Yet among the general appearances of nature there are still many lively spots and cheering aspects. “The furze flings out its bright yellow flowers upon the otherwise bare common, like little gleams of sunshine; and the moles ply their mischievous night-work in the dry meadows; and the green plover ‘whistles o’er the lea;’ and the snipes haunt the marshy grounds; and the wagtails twinkle about near the spring-heads; and the larks get together in companies, and talk to each other, instead of singing to themselves; and the thrush occasionally puts forth a plaintive note, as if half afraid of the sound of his own voice; and the hedge-sparrow and titmouse try to sing; and the robin does sing still, even more delightfully than he has done during all the rest of the year, because it now seems as if he sang for us rather than for himself—or rather to us, for it is still for his supper that he sings, and therefore for himself.”[519]
The “Poetical Calendar” offers a little poem with some lines descriptive of the month, which are pleasant to read within doors, while “rude Boreas” is blustering without:—
December.
Last of the months, severest of them all,
Woe to the regions where thy terrors fall!
For lo! the fiery horses of the sun
Thro’ the twelve signs their rapid course have run,
Time, like a serpent, bites his forked tail,
And Winter on a goat bestrides the gale;
Rough blows the north wind near Arcturus’ star,
And sweeps, unrein’d, across the polar bar,
On the world’s confines where the sea bears prowl,
And Greenland whales, like moving islands, roll:
There, on a sledge, the rein-deer drives the swain
To meet his mistress on the frost-bound plain.
Have mercy, Winter!—for we own thy power,
Thy flooding deluge, and thy drenching shower;
Yes—we acknowledge what thy prowess can,
But oh! have pity on the toil of man!
And, tho’ the floods thy adamantine chain
Submissive wear—yet spare the treasur’d grain:
The peasants to thy mercy now resign
The infant seed—their hope, and future mine.
Not always Phœbus bends his vengeful bow,
Oft in mid winter placid breezes blow;
Oft tinctur’d with the bluest transmarine
The fretted canopy of heaven is seen;
Girded with argent lamps, the full-orb’d moon
In mild December emulates the noon;
Tho’ short the respite, if the sapphire blue
Stain the bright lustre with an inky hue;
Then a black wreck of clouds is seen to fly,
In broken shatters, thro’ the frighted sky:
But if fleet Eurus scour the vaulted plain,
Then all the stars propitious shine again.