I.
The summer's fading flowers have passed away,
And wintry snows invest the frozen ground;
And now, when closes fast the setting day,
The silent stars resume their nightly round;
And bright, emerging from her depths profound,
The placid moon adorns the central sky.
Oh, Winter Eve! The muse at length shall sound,
Long wont on other themes her skill to try,
Her notes, as well she may, in fitting praise of thee.

II.
The winds are hushed, and all around is calm;
Scarce on the cold blue heavens is seen a cloud;
Nor sudden rains nor storms, with rude alarm,
Come forth with meteor glooms the earth to shroud.
Prone in their quiet folds the sheep are bowed;
The teamster drives abroad; and o'er the way,
With clear, shrill bells, resounding oft and loud,
The well-wrapped traveler guides his rapid sleigh,
And merry cracks his whip, or sings his rustic lay.

III.
And see! Along the glassy river's face,
On skates swift-gliding, or perchance without,
The village lads each other gaily chase,
And rising loud, the oft repeated shout
Of those, who tire their boon companions out,
Or pass them in the race, bursts to the sky,
Anon, while distant whirls the giddy rout,
Some neighbor lads their wits at jesting try;
Some tell a jocund tale, some laugh out merrily.

IV.
E'en winter has its charms. How pure the glow,
That decks the pensive brow of evening's queen!
The spotless hills, adorned in robes of snow,
Ascend in light and loveliness serene.
Far in the tranquil distance may be seen
The hoary forests and the mountain pile.
Shut to the door! The outer air is keen;
And 'neath the cottage roof repose awhile,
Where, round its joyous hearth, the happy inmates smile.

V.
The fire is blazing with the crackling trees;
Upon the walls the dancing shadows play;
Without, is heard the sudden winter breeze,
And then more close they gird the hearth's bright ray.
The aged Father's there. His locks of gray,
In many a twine, are round his shoulders spread.
His eye beams not, as in his earlier day,
When strength and buoyant youth inspired his tread;
Yet pleasant are the joys his age doth round him shed.

VI.
For oft to fondly listening ears he traced,
How, in his youth, in distant lands and new,
He smote the soil, the rocks and woods displaced,
Until the desert to a garden grew.
And much he told, (for much forsooth he knew,)
How best to rear the sheep or lowing herd,
Of what in spring and autumn months to do;
And to his serious mind it oft occurred,
To mingle, as he spake, the monitory word.

VII.
His prompt and careful wife seemed 'made of fire,'
For, round and round, she plied her rapid wheel;
She knew not at her daily task to tire,
And scarce the withering touch of age did feel.
While others pressed the couch, with wakeful zeal,
Soon as the early note of chanticleer,
Heard from the neighboring barn, renewed its peal,
She called aloud; the starting maidens hear,
And hasten to their work, ere morning gleams appear.

VIII.
A dweller here, the sturdy ditcher Time,
True to his spade, though crowned with tresses gray;
He, on the settle, throws his weary limbs,
(As well he might, who toilsome spends the day,)
And bids in rustic dreams his cares away.
And there was one; he was an Orphan lad,
Who came at first in tears and mean array,
But generous friendship made his bosom glad,
And here Dick toiled by day, and here his dwelling had.

IX.
Nor these alone were there; a numerous race,
To filial love and deeds of reverence true,
Graced from their early days their dwelling-place,
And humble arts and household duties knew.
And often, when their daily task was through,
And evening's shadows darkened in the air,
Around the hearth the sons and daughters drew;
Of looms and distaffs these, (whate'er their care,)
Those spake of huntings, wilds, and mountains drear and bare.

X.
If angry storms have o'er the mountains broke,
And deluged wide the fields with sudden rain;
If lightnings, redly winged, have rent the oak,
That mighty stood, the monarch of the plain;
If fierce the sullen wolf hath come again,
With bloody thoughts, and ready to destroy;
These, too, (nor deem their humble converse vain,)
Recurring oft, may well their thoughts employ,
And fill the social hours with sorrow or with joy.

XI.
Perhaps they listen to some ancient tale,
(What land cannot its legends rude recall?)
Which tells of other days of grief and wail,
And sudden bids the generous tear-drop fall.
Perchance more recent themes their minds enthral,
Themes, that are sad with deep domestic woe;
As when but lately, though adorned with all
That worth could give, or beauty's charms bestow,
The mountain maid they loved, was in the grave laid low.

XII.
Hark! scarcely noticed, doth the noiseless door,
Unfolding soft, invite a stranger in;
A daughter of the oft-neglected poor,
But she hath virtues that exalt and win.
They grasp her hand, as if she were their kin,
Their hearts, their hopes congenial with her own.
Soon other joys and other tales begin;
The rural news is round the hearth made known;
Anon the darker scenes, which memory drew, are flown.

XIII.
And well the maiden merited their praise,
As pleased they listened to her simple tone;
Far in the wilds, 'tis true, she spent her days,
Accomplished well in rural arts alone.
But none the less her sylvan beauty shone,
And guileless honor crowned her virgin heart.
Ah, little to the busy world are known
The virtue and the bliss that dwell apart,
Far from the crowded hall, and place of polished art.

XIV.
Dick in his corner sits with wondering gaze;
Attentive he, though seldom heard to speak;
Upon his hand his lazy chin he stays,
Distending wide his plump and steadfast cheek.
Despite his quiet aspect, rude yet meek,
He loves the song and merry tale to hear;
And, slow the pleasant couch of rest to seek,
Though not unused to wearying toil severe,
He sometimes loudly laughs, and sometimes sheds the tear.

XV.
Placed in the great arm-chair, the Grandam sitting,
In decent cap, with spectacles astride,
Old as she is, she still is at her knitting;
And, though by age and many sorrows tried,
Is ever last to lay her work aside.
The little Emma, bright as flowers of spring,
And noisy, too, as birds in summer's pride,
Yields to the common joy her offering.
The faggots blaze anew, the bubbling kettles sing.

XVI.
And oft the evening's merry sports go round
In games, repeated long with fervent will.
The simple board with autumn's fruits is crowned;
Perchance some vagrant minstrel adds his skill.
Meantime, (who else the vacant rack shall fill?)
Doth honest Dick go forth the herd to feed;
And whistling loud, with Rover at his heel,
Who, faithful, follows at his master's need,
He thinks of stalking ghosts, or some mysterious deed.

XVII.
And now, when skies are clear and toils are done,
(And may that ancient custom long abide,)
With joyous hearts, united all as one,
In ready sleigh, the youth and maidens glide.
They seek the plains; they climb the hillock's side;
Well pleased, they praise the splendors of the night,
The stars, that give the galaxy its pride,
The overhanging cliffs in robes of white,
The chaste, unclouded moon, that sheds o'er all her light.

XVIII.
The cracking thong, the tramp, the bells' rude chime,
The owl have frightened from his leafless bower,
Where hooting oft at midnight's 'witching time,'
His song has added terror to that hour.
They pass the forests wide, that proudly tower;
The wild deer lifts his arching head to hear,
High on his cliffs. Dreading the hunter's power,
The hare starts suddenly away with fear,
Then crouching to the ground, erects his sentinel ear.

XIX.
Far other was the night, whose whirlwinds loud
Tossed through the troubled air the restless snow;
Darkly on high went forth the angry cloud,
And breaking forests uttered sounds of woe.
Remote, alone, with footsteps faint and slow,
That night a Hunter did his way pursue.
Cold o'er his track, the stormy tempests blow;
No cot was near, his strength that might renew;
His hands to ice congealed; his cheeks to marble grew.

XX.
Sad victim of the storm and weary way,
He bowed his head, like one that soon shall die,
For life was breaking from its house of clay,
And light was stealing from his glassy eye.
And yet he had a home, a wife, and nigh
His cheerful hearth, were lovely children twain.
No more their heads shall on his bosom lie,
No more he'll press their ruddy lips again,
Cold is the Hunter's breast upon the distant plain.

XXI.
But whither bends the muse her wayward flight,
Indulging thus in solemn minstrelsy?
'Tis true, when winter spreads o'er earth its blight,
And rends its bloom and fruit from field and tree,
That songs of joy may uncongenial be;
Such as would suit, when birds are on the wing,
And leaf and flower are shining laughingly.
And yet, though sad, she will not cease to sing,
But ever, full of life, her various tribute bring.

XXII.
Then rouse the fire; the moon is watching yet;
And chanticleer his midnight cry delays.
Though others, pleased with later times, forget,
Old Tims, at least, shall tell of other days.
'Tis pleasant, seated round the evening blaze,
In Fancy's eye, the wonders to review
Of chieftains of the lost, the native race.
And memory yet her efforts shall renew,
And Passaconaway sketch with tints and honors due.

XXIII.
Son of the forest! Child of deathless fame!
If deeds of death a deathless name can win;
Who bore aloft, where'er in wrath he came,
The club, that oft had made the battle thin,
And fearless raised the war-cry's dreadful din.
Around his painted neck terrific hung,
With dangling claws, a broad and shaggy skin;
Victorious trophies o'er his bosom swung,
And oft the Sachem danced, and oft the Sachem sung.

XXIV.
Strange man! A tenant of the dusky wood,
The cave, the mountain, and the tangled glen,
He roused the hissing serpent, and pursued
The angry bear, and slew him in his den.
O'er craggy cliffs, the dread of other men,
The eagle's solitary home he sought,
And sternly tamed his mighty wing, and then
O'ertook the tall gray moose, as quick as thought,
And then the mountain cat he chased, and chasing caught.

XXV.
And often o'er 'Seogee's thick-ribbed ice,
With fiercely howling wolves, trained three and three,
High seated on a sledge, made in a trice,
Of bones and skins and fitly shapen tree,
He 'rode sublime,' and sung right jollily.
And once upon a car of living fire,
The dreadful Indian shook with fear to see,
The King of Penacook, his chief, his sire,
Borne flaming up towards heaven, than any mountain higher.

XXVI.
Thus ever hath the muse a mingled note,
Such as all places and all times will suit.
In summer's winds her numbers gently float,
Breathed soft as sound of sighing lover's lute,
All gentleness, with stormy passions mute.
But when strong winter comes with maddening strife,
Aroused, she lays aside her shepherd's flute,
And takes the shrilling trump, the martial fife,
And sounds the stormy notes of wild, mysterious life.

XXVII.
Those youthful days are gone! And with them fled
The scenes, the sports, that soothed my simple heart;
Yet still those scenes their genial ray shall shed,
To charm the careless hour, to soothe the smart
Of disappointment's sting and sorrow's dart.
Oft will I muse, and shed the willing tear,
O'er the loved plains, whence fortune bade me part,
Recall the happy faces once so dear,
Recall the Winter Eve, and all its social cheer.