Classic Poem

I am the lord of frost and snow,
My home is on the northern deep,
Where lofty berg and sunless floe,
Their cold, eternal vigils keep.

I prowl about the dreary main,
I roam along the sleepless sea;
The burden of my tale is pain,
And sighs and tears and agony.

For I am he who lays full low
The pleasant flow'r in loathsome death;
I churn the rivers while I blow
Great gusts which sweep away men's breath.

What time I lurk in icy halls
They say 'tis summer, and the earth
Throbs, buds and glows—the fruitage falls;
Each cottage rings with peasant-mirth.

But, often, ere the tender blade
Hath filled its spike with sappy corn,
I hurtle from my piny glade,
And shout till all the peasants mourn.

The winter cometh, chill and drear,
A stave—the offspring of my power;
And soon the daisies find a bier,
A common grave each tender flow'r.

And cold and dull as an old man's blood
Earth's pulses beat; within the air
No joyous sound, no warbled flood:
The leaves fall down in mute despair.

The mighty forests pant and heave,
Like drunken bacchanals they call;
My hand goes forth and, lo! they grieve;
My fingers touch them and they fall.

I look upon the glimmering stream
Which woos the stars from heaven's breast,
And quickly vanishes the gleam:
Each ripple finds an icy rest.

The torrent-music and the hush,
The lonely whisper of the woods
Grow faint and die; their spirits rush
To other haunts and solitudes.

The nut-brown cheek, and matron grace
Of autumned earth, the dewy eye
Which gazeth on her quiet face,
Alike must shrink, alike must fly.

And over hills and mountains drear
I sift and heap my whirling snow;
I sweep away the leaflets sear,
And hide them in the vales below.

I load the green-armed balsams down,
And robe them in a kirtle white;
I front the cedars with a frown,
And hide their darkness from the light.

About the plains I lash and roar,
And surge as doth the billowy ocean,
Casting my wreaths behind, before—
Cloud after cloud in hasty motion.

I heap my flakes upon each roof,
I huddle them about the eaves;
The mantle hath no warp, no woof,
Which the chill-fingered winter weaves.

Men shrink aghast when I draw nigh,
And quake as seized with sudden dread;
Then quickly to their cov'rings fly,
To mansion, cottage, or to shed.

The parents gather round the fire,
The youngsters perch upon each knee,
And all are still, while higher, higher
My tingling tongue shrieks mournfully.

All night I hunt with snow and storm
The wretched mother, wandering, lost;
And shake with sleet her tender form,
And bind her tears with links of frost.

And when the infant, mute-mouthed, slips,
Dead, from the sighing mother's teat,
I freeze the milk which slowly drips
Adown, and steal her bosom's heat.

And chiller, fiercer in my glee,
I blow along the paths of night;
Till o'er them sweeps the winter free,
And buries them from mortal sight.

I track great armies on their path,
And harass them with sleet and snow;
They shrink, they cower before my wrath—
In vain their pomp and martial glow.

Down, down they sink, those stern-faced men,
Down, one by one, all silently,
In sleep which hath no dream of pain,
So calm, so cunning death can be.

Then I arise in awful might,
And howl their requiem aloud;
And stealthily at dead of night
Weave over them a snowy shroud.

And over them I shout and brawl,
Day after day upon the plain;
Till spring comes forth with breezy call,
And straight unburies them again.

Long years ago a ship set out
From a far city in the West;
With brawny hull and timbers stout
She cleaved the sounding ocean's breast.

And on she sped: her hardy crew
Feared neither tide nor wave nor wind.
Into the dim expanse they flew—
The earth-world soon was left behind.

And naught but sea and sky was seen.
Naught but the sky and murm'ring sea;
And midnight whispers rose between,
Voices and deep-born harmony.

And hope was there; nor fear nor dread
Found resting place—swoll'n was each sail;
And northward like a cloud they fled,
Urged by the wing-stroke of the gale.

Softly the shrouds, tuned to my voice,
Harped a faint music through the air—
Sweet tones which made each soul rejoice,
Mazing and threading here and there.

The jest passed round from mouth to mouth,
The echoing laugh rung clear and bold;
And many a legend of the south,
And many a pleasant tale was told.

Some told of brave, advent'rous men
Forsaking home in dauntless bands,
That home they ne'er might see again,
To roam in quest of other lands.

And how, in wretched, leaky craft,
They battled with the wind and wave;
How hunger pinched them till they laughed
Like maniacs in a living grave!

How thirst consumed them until death
Stared in each haggard cheek and eye:
They gasped for thirst, they gasped for breath,
When lo! the land dawned suddenly.

And such a land! A land of gold,
And fruitage mellowing in the sun;
Of myriad joys, of wealth untold,
And hope, and peace, and pleasure won.

Some told how settlements were made,
And cities rose in haughty pride,
Where gloomed erstwhile the forest glade,
Or by the lordly river's side.

And how wealth flowed, an endless stream,
And days and years went flocking past,
Like the procession in a dream,
Or heav'nly boons too sweet to last.

And others told of balmy isles,
Where lovers might their griefs assuage;
Of scenes where nature ever smiles—
Of youth, and innocence and age.

Of fame, and power, and empires great,
Of kings—how millions fear their wrath;
And of the poor, the rich estate
The poet, painter, sculptor hath.

Ah, well-a-day! what themes were these,
Ere I arose in vengeful might!
What hopeful morns, what nights of ease,
What pleasant thoughts, what fancies bright!

But I had tracked them many a mile,
Remorseless as the yearning grave,
And all unseen had mocked each smile,
Each laugh one to the other gave.

And cunning as an asp I reared
The unseen danger of my mouth;
And swept the spoon-drift as I veered,
And blew from east and west and south.

Till to the desolate ocean's brink
And dreary waste of wave they came,
Where frosty planets rise and sink
In sheeny fields of wandering flame.

And now I scowled upon the sea,
And fetched great clouds to hide the sky,
And quench its twinkling, starry glee,
While tempest, storm and fears drew nigh.

And fiercely still I urged them on—
On to the land of frost and snow,
Where night and morn and eve are one,
The sunrise and the sunset glow.

The talking billows rose and gave
Strange stories 'twixt the lightning gleams;
And all dark thoughts that murd'rers have,
Dim visionings and lonely dreams,

And ev'ry wild and dreadful thing,
Fear and despair, remorse and pain,
That hour I o'er the deep did fling
In mist, in thunder and in rain.

The white foam winked upon the deep;
The great masts bent before the gale;
Each blast made th' strong ship surge and leap,
And bulged and strained each dripping sail.

Each strong blast made her creak and groan,
As 'twere a soul in misery;
She swayed, she lurched with many a moan,—
No rest, no peacefulness had she.

And yet I spared her; day and night
She fled before me. While my breath
Grew fiercely cold none marked her flight
Onward to the abode of death.

And colder, colder still I blew—
A horrible and intense cold;
It numbed the fingers of the crew,
It froze the water in the hold.

They fed the fires, their fuel spent,
With short'ning wine, and oil, and grain,
And chafed in wild bewilderment
Their stony limbs, and wept with pain.

They fed the feeble fires till naught
Was left for fuel or for food;
And still the icy drift I brought,
And chilled the torrent of their blood.

And blist'ring snow fell thick and fast,
On deck it lay in dreary hills;
Thick ice clung round each rope and mast,
And hung in sheeny icicles.

And, sealed with frost as with a seal,
The big blocks stood in icy mails;
The great sheets hung like bars of steel—
So stiff they could not reef the sails.

At length the ocean ceased to flow—
It froze and bound her; far and near
Great crags of ice and peaks of snow
Lifted their foreheads chill and drear.

And through the shrouds I whistled keen,
And drave the luckless vessel fast,
'Twixt icebergs, and the awful sheen
Of crashing floes and hummucks vast.

Then, like a frightful dream which fills
The soul with loathing, in a trice
I wrought a horror in the hills
And whuling caverns of ice.

And round the ship I shrieked and howled;
What mortal crew could brave my glee?
Their souls fled upward as I scowled,
And left the lifeless clay with me.

The attitude each body had
When life departed still it kept;
Some clutched the ropes, despairing, mad—
Some knelt in pray'r, some crouched and wept.

One even smiled—a strange, sweet smile,
Tinged with regret and musing thought—
As nothing could his soul despoil
Of the deep joy with which 'twas fraught.

The look-out man upon the mast
Still seemed as he was wont to be,
On watch—but he was frozen fast:
He peered into eternity.

The captain sat before his log,
Holding his pen as if to trace
Some words, and at his feet a dog
Lay crouched, and looking in his face.

And near him his fond sister leant
Her weary head upon her hand;
In her fair, lovely face were blent
Pity and hope and high command.

And all were dead, and stony cold,
As cold as ever the dead can be;
And the frost of years, and the rime of old
Still cling to their flesh and garmentry.

For, though all dead, they still are there:
No more by toil and trouble worn,
Silent as shadows, free from care,
They wait the dreadful coming morn.