The Cecil Whig., 1852-01-10
From Graham's Magazine, for January, 1881
WINTER.

Now sits the twilight palaced in the snow,
Hugging away beneath fleece of gold
Her statue beauties, dumb and icy cold,
And fixing her blue steadfast eyes below,
Where in bed OF chilly waves afar,
With dismal shadows o'er her sweet face
blown,
Tended to death by eve's delicious star,
Lies the lost day alone.
Where late, with red msts bound about his
brows,
Went the swart Autumn, wadng to the knees
Through drifts of dead leaves shaken from the
boughs
Ofthe old forest trees,
The gusts uron their balefnl errandS run
O'er the bright ruin fading from our eyes,
And over ALL like clouds about the sun,
A shallow lies.
For, fallen asleep upon dreary world,
Slant TO the light, one late October morn,
From some rough cavern blew tempest cold,
And tearing of his garland OF ripe corn,
Twisted with blue grapes, sweet with luscious
wine,
And Ceres drowsy flowers, so duly red,
Deep in his cavern leafy and divine,
Buried him with his dead.
Then with his black beard gistening in the frost,
Under the icy arches of the north,
And DER the still graves of the seasons lost,
clustered the Winter forth
Spring, with your crown of roses budding now,
Thought-nursing and most melancholy Fall,
Summer with bloomy meadows wet with dew,
Blghting your beauties all.
Oh heart, your spring time dream will idle prove,
! Your summer but forerun the autumn's death, :,
The nowery arches in the home of love
Fall. crumbling, at a breath;
And, sick at last with that great sorrows shock
As some poor prisoner, pressing to the bars
! His forehead, calls on Mercy TO unlock
! The chambers OF the stars
You, turning off from lie's first morning glow,
Leaning, it may be, still on broken faith,
Will down the vale of autumn 60
To the chill winter, death.
I1ark from the empty bosom ofthe grove
| hear a sob, as one fOrorn might pine
The white limbed beauty of a god is thine,
King of the seasons! and the night tint hoods
Thy brow majestic, brightest stars enweavc-
Thou surely canst not glieve;
But only far away
Makes, stormy prophecies; well liftthcm hi cher
Till m 'rning on I, forehead of the day
Presses seal of fire.
Ofna,ure shrinking from thy rough embrace,
Than Summer, with her rustlns robe OF green
Cool blowing in my face.
The moon is up-how still the yellow beams
| That slantwise lie upon the stirleSs air,
Sprinkled with frost, like pearl entangled hair,
O'er beauty's cheek that streams.
How the red light of Mars their pallor mocks,
And the wild legend from the old time wins,
Ofsweet waves kissing all the drowning locks
Ofllia's lovely twins.
Come, Poesy, and with thy shadowy hands
Cover me softly sing ing all the night
In thy dear presence find best delight;
Even the saint that stands
Tending the gate of heaven, involved in beams
Ofrarcst glory, to my mortal eyes
Palcs from the blest insanity ofdreams
That round thee lies.
Unto the dusky borders of the grove
Where gray haired Saturn, silent as stone,
Sat in his grief alone,
Or where young Venus, searching for her love,
Walked through the clouds, pray,
Bear me tonight away.
Or wale with me h ough SHOWS,
Drlted in loose fantastic curves aside,
From humble doors where Love and Faith
| abide,
And no rough winter blows,
Chilling the beauty OF affections fair,
Cabined securely there.
Where ronnd their fingers winding the white
slips
The crown his forehead, on the grandsire's
knees,
Sit merry children, teasing about suips
/ Lest IN the perilous seas;
Or listening with troublous Joy, yet deep,
! To stories about battles, or Of storms,
Till weary grown. and browsing into sleep,
| Slide they from out his arms.
! Where, by the log-hcap fire,
/ As the pane ralllcs and the cricket sings,
| with the gray-haired sire
May talk of vanished summcr-timqs and
springs,
And harmlessly and chccrfully beguile
! The long. long hours
The happier for the SHOWS that drift the while
About the flowers.
Winter, wilt keep the love offer thee?
No mesh OF flowers is bound about my brow;
From life's fair summer am fastening now.
And as sink my knee,
Dimpling the beauty of thy bed of snow
Dowerless, ! can but say
o, cast me not away!
DIALOGUE.
Nlliam-Good morning John, how are you?
John-Why William! how do you do?
:, .t.a