Winter's Fête

I woke, and every lordling of the groveWas clad in diamonds, and the lowliest shrubDid wear its crest of brilliants gallantly.The swelling hillocks, with their woven vines,T far-seen forests, and the broken hedge,Yea, every thicket gleam'd in bright array,As for some gorgeous fête of fairy-land.

—Ho! jewel-keeper of the hoary North,Whence hast thou all these treasures? Why, the minesOf rich Golconda, since the world was young,Would fail to furnish such a glorious show.The queen, who to her coronation comes,With half a realm's exchequer on her head,Dazzleth the shouting crowd. But all the queensWho since old Egypt's buried dynastyHave here and there, amid the mists of time,Lifted their tiny sceptres—all the throngOf peeresses, who at some birth-night shine,Might boast no moiety of the gems thy handSo lavishly hath strewn o'er this old tree,Fast by my window.Every noteless thorn,Even the coarse sumach and the bramble bush,Do sport their diadems, as if, forsooth,Our plain republic in a single nightPut forth such growth of aristocracyThat no plebeian in the land was left

Uncoroneted. Broider'd frost-work wrapsYon stunted pear-tree, whose ne'er ripen'd fruit,Acid and bitter, every truant-boyBlamed with set teeth. Lo! while I speak, its crownKindleth in bossy crimson, and a streamOf Tyrian purple, blent with emerald spark,Floats round its rugged arms; while here and thereGleams out a living sapphire, mid a knotOf trembling rubies, whose exquisite rayO'erpowers the astonish'd sight.One arctic queen,For one ice-palace, rear'd with fearful toil,And soon dissolving, scrupled not to payHer vassal's life; and emperors of oldHave drain'd their coffers for the people's gaze,Though but a single amphitheatreCompress'd the crowd. But thou, whose potent wandCall'd forth such grand enchantment, swift as thought,And silent as a vision, and canst spreadIts wondrous beauty to each gazing eye,Nor be the poorer, thou art scorn'd and bann'dMid all thy beauty. Summer scantly shedsA few brief dew-drops for the sun to dry,And wins loud praise from every piping swainFor the proud fête.Yet, certes, in these days,When wealth is so esteem'd that he who boastsThe longest purse is sure the wisest man,Winter, who thus affords to sprinkle gems,Mile after mile, on all the landscape round,And decks his new-made peers in richer robesThan monarch ever gave, deserves more thanks

Than to be call'd rude churl and miser old.—I tell thee he's a friend, and Love, who sitsSo quiet in the corner, whispering longIn beauty's ear, by the bright evening fire,Shall join my verdict. Yes, the King of Storms,So long decried, hath revenue more richThan sparkling diamonds.Look within thy heart,When the poor shiver in their snow-wreath’d cell,Or the sad orphan mourns, and if thou findAn answering pity, and a fervent deedDone in Christ's name, doubt not to be an heirOf that true wealth, which Winter hoardeth upTo buy the soul a mansion with the blest.