Classic Poem

O'er town and cottage, vale and height,
Down came the Winter, fierce and white,
And shuddering wildly, as distraught
At horrors his own hand had wrought.

His child, the young Year, newly born,
Cheerless, cowering, and affrighted,
Wailed with a shivering voice forlorn,
As on a frozen heath benighted.
In vain the hearths were set aglow,
In vain the evening lamps were lighted,
To cheer the dreary realm of snow
Old Winter's brow would not be smoothed,
Nor the young Year's wailing soothed.
How sad the wretch at morn or eve
Compelled his starving home to leave,
Who, plunged breast-deep from drift to drift.
Toils slowly on from rift to rift,
Still hearing in his aching ear
The cry his fancy whispers near,
Of little ones who weep for bread
Within an ill-provided shed!

But wilder, fiercer, sadder still,
Freezing the tear it caused to start,
Was the inevitable chill
Which pierced a nation's agued heart, —
A nation with its naked breast
Against the frozen barriers prest,
Heaving its tedious way and slow
Through shifting gulfs and drifts of woe,
Where every blast that whistled by
Was bitter with its children's cry.

Such was the winter's awful sight
For many a dreary day and night,
What time our country's hope forlorn,
Of every needed comfort shorn,
Lay housed within a hurried tent,
Where every keen blast found a rent,
And oft the snow was seen to sift
Along the floor its piling drift,
Or, mocking the scant blankets' fold,
Across the night-couch frequent rolled,
Where every path by a soldier beat,
Or every track where a sentinel stood.
Still held the print of naked feet,
And oft the crimson stains of blood;
Where Famine held her spectral court,
And joined by all her fierce allies:
She ever loved a camp or fort
Beleaguered by the wintry skies, —
But chiefly when Disease is by,
To sink the frame and dim the eye,
Until, with seeking forehead bent,
In martial garments cold and damp,
Pale Death patrols from tent to tent,
To count the charnels of the camp.

Such was the winter that prevailed
Within the crowded, frozen gorge;
Such were the horrors that assailed
The patriot band at Valley Forge.

It was a midnight storm of woes
To clear the sky for Freedom's morn;
And such must ever be the throes
The hour when Liberty is born.

The chieftain, by his evening lamp,
Whose flame scarce cheered the hazy damp,
Sat toiling o'er some giant plan,
With maps and charts before him spread,
Beholding in his warrior scan
The paths which through the future led.

But oft his eye was filmed and dim,
And oft his aching bosom yearned,
As through the camp his fancy turned
And saw sad eyes which bent on him
The look which they in pain had learned.
The sunken orbs of hunger there,
With those that throbbed in fever-rage,
As he their suffering might assuage,
Turned on him their imploring stare.
And when he spoke the kindly word
Oft from his lips of pity heard,
And saw those eyes grow bright the while
They caught the courage of his smile,
His sorrowing heart was doubly stirred.
And, to relieve his burdened breast,
His face into his hands he prest,
And poured his secret soul in prayer,
Where hope still rose above despair.

And there was seated by his side
The noblest of a noble line:
Her whole soul in her face benign,
Through love and suffering purified,
Shone worthy such a chieftain's bride.

And not alone his prayer was given, —
She joined him in imploring Heaven:
Those prayers fell not in barren sands
Beside Oblivion's fruitless sea,
But, borne aloft by angel hands,
They bloomed to flowers of victory.

The eve was late: naught met the ear,
But tramp of sentinel marching near,
Or soft and feathery beat of snow
Blown light against the window-pane,
To melt thereon, and tearlike flow,
As if the sympathetic glow
Within had turned each flake to rain.

At times there came the slumbrous sound
Of waters toiling at the mill,
Still singing, though in fetters bound,
The song learned on their natal hill.
Let Winter, with oppressive will,
Bind down the stream with chains of ice,
His utmost power shall not suffice.
To keep that heart of Freedom still:
Though prisoned in the frozen pond,
It only reinforcement waits
To burst the tyrant's heavy gates
And leap to liberty beyond.

Thus with the tranquil flood of power
Within that camp of ice and snow;
Though all was silent outward show,
They did but wait the opening hour.

The night was late: the chieftain heard
Approaching footsteps up the yard;
A knock: he rose, and gave the word:
The door swung wide; the snowy guard
Announced, with some unwonted stir,
An unexpected visitor,
With two attendants there beside.
It was a maid with cloak of fur,
And hood, so closely round her tied
That well the storm had been defied.
So thick the snow was o'er her blown,
So flaxen was the falling braid
Beside the rosy cheek displayed,
She looked like some fair Norland maid
Wrapped in a robe of eider-down.

Beside her stood a youth whose mien
Brought to the chief's remembering eye
The stripling hero he had seen
Bearing a banner proudly high,
Within a light-horse flying line,
That fearful day at Brandywine.
The other was that sturdy dame
The housekeeper: you saw it all
In one glance at that stately frame,
Queen of the keys of Berkley Hall.

The maid a moment seemed to stand
Abashed before that presence high:
He read it in her timid eye,
And took in his her trembling hand.
She felt her young blood swifter run;
Her heart could not regain its calm;
Her little hand lay in his palm, —
The noble palm of Washington!

Then rose the lady, with serene,
Sweet looks o'er all her stately mien;
And she too took her hand, and spoke
In winning accents low and mild: —
" It is a stormy night, my child,
For one so young to be abroad; —
Or have you wandered from your road?
Pray, loose your snowy hood and cloak,
And warm you well beside the fire,
And take the rest which you require.
Shrink not because the place is small:
Our hearts, we trust, have room for all. "

When Esther answered, " Noble friends,
We have not wandered from our way,
Nor need we now for warmth delay;
Our glowing purpose freely sends
Its heat, and we would straightway do
The duty Heaven directs us to.

Much have we heard of all the ills
Suffered along these winter hills, —
Of famine in the frozen camp,
Of cheerless couches, cold and damp,
Where sickness breathes its painful breath
Mid bitter wants that usher Death.

Hence have we come, with courage armed,
With every deep compassion warmed,
To do the little in our power
To soothe the suffering of the hour.
Our sleigh is standing at the door,
Laden with such poor, hasty store
As one home from its winter hoard
Can to a bleeding cause afford:
And now it but remains to ask
Permission to assume our task. "

She ceased, and stood with glowing cheek, —
So beautiful, so young and meek,
She seemed an answer to their prayer, —
A very pitying angel there.
The chieftain's eye grew dim with mist,
His heart was all too full to speak;
The lady's arm the maiden pres.
She drew her to her matron breast
And tenderly her forehead kissed.
The chief put out his hands, and smiled, —
He laid them on her golden hair,
And said, in feeling words of prayer
" God bless you, noble child! "