  THE beating snow-clad bell, with sounding dead, Hath clanked four—the woodman’s wak’d again; And, as he leaves his comfortable bed, Dithers to view the rimy feather’d pane, And shrugs, and wishes—but ’tis all in vain: The bed’s warm comforts he most now forego; His family that oft till eight hath lain, Without his labour’s wage could not do so. And glad to make them blest he shuffles through the snow. The early winter’s morn is dark as pitch, The wary wife from tinder brought at night With flint and steel, and may a sturdy twitch, Sits up in bed to strike her man a light; And as the candle shows the rapturous sight, Aside his wife his rosy sleeping boy, He smacks his lips with exquisite delight, With all a father’s feelings, father’s joy, Then bids his wife good-bye, and hies to his employ. A barley-crust he in his wallet flings; On this he toils and labours in the wood, And chops his faggot, twists his band, and sings, As happily as princes and as kings With all their luxury:—and blest is he, Can but the little which his labour brings Make both ends meet, and from long debts keep free, And neat and clean preserve his numerous family. Far o’er the dreary fields the woodland lies, Rough is the journey which he daily goes; The woolly clouds, that hang the frowning skies, Keep winnowing down their drifting sleet and snows, And thro’ his doublet keen the north wind blows; While hard as iron the cemented ground, And smooth as glass the glibbed pool is froze; His nailed boots with clenching tread rebound, And dithering echo starts and mocks the clamping sound. The woods how gloomy in a winter’s morn! The crows and ravens even cease to croak, The little birds sit chittering on the thorn, The pies scarce chatter when they leave the oak, Startled from slumber by the woodman’s stroke; The milk-maid’s song is drown’d in gloomy care, She milks, and blows, and hastens to be there; And nature all seems sad, and dying in despair. The quirking rabbit scarcely leaves her hole, But rolls in torpid slumbers all the day; The fox is loth to ’gin a long patrol, And scouts the woods, content with meaner prey; The hare so frisking, timid once and gay, ’Hind the dead thistle hurkles from the view, Nor scarce is scar’d though in the traveller’s way, Though waffling curs and shepherd-dogs pursue: So winter’s ragged power affects all nature through. What different changes winter’s frowns supply: The clown no more a loitering hour beguiles, Nor gaping tracks the clouds along the sky, As when buds blossom, and the warm sun smiles, And “Lawrence wages bids” on hills and stiles; Banks, stiles, and flowers, and skies, no longer charm; Deep drifting snow each summer-seat defiles; With hasty blundering step and folded arm He glad the stable seeks, his frost-nip nose to warm. The shepherd haunts no more his spreading oak, Nor on the sloping pond-head lies at lair; The arbour he once wattled up is broke, The ragged plundering stickers have been there, And pilfer’d it away; he passes by His summer dwelling, desolate and bare, And ne’er so much as turns a conscious eye, But gladly seeks his fire, and shuns th’ inclement sky. The scene is cloth’d in snow from morn till night, The woodman’s loth his chilly tools to seize; The crows unroosting as he comes in sight Shake down the feathery burden from the trees; To look at things around he’s fit to freeze: Scar’d from her perch the fluttering pheasant flies: His hat and doublet whiten by degrees, He quakes, looks round, and pats his hands and sighs, And wishes to himself that the warm sun would rise. The robin, tamest of the feather’d race, Soon as he hears the woodman’s sounding chops, With ruddy bosom and a simple face Around his old companion fearless hops, And there for hours in pleas’d attention stops: The woodman’s heart is tender and humane And at his meals he many a crumble drops. Thanks to thy generous feelings, gentle swain; And what thy pity gives, shall not be given in vain. The woodman gladly views the closing day, To see the sun drop down behind the wood, Sinking in clouds deep blue or misty grey, Round as a football and as red as blood: The pleasing prospect does his heart much good, Though ’tis not his such beauties to admire; He hastes to fill his bags with billet-wood, Well-pleas’d from the chill prospect to retire, To seek his corner chair, and warm snug cottage fire. And soon as dusky even hovers round, And the white frost ’gins crizzle pond and brook, The little family are glimpsing round, And from the door dart many a wistful look; The supper’s ready stewing on the hook: And every foot that clampers down the street Is for the coming father’s step mistook; O’erjoy’d are they when he their eyes doth meet, Bent ’neath his load, snow-clad, as white as any sheet. I think I see him seated in his chair, |
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