Our Father kind, who dwells above, Therefore in peace thy slumber take, New strength, new light to see. Soon to the breath of Spring's soft sighs In wondrous life so fair; I feel those sighs breathe o'er the plain, With flower-wreaths in thy hair. A FROST SCENE. Ar noon to-day, I and my white greyhound, Mayflower, set out for a walk into a very beautiful world-a sort of silent fairy-land-a creation of that matchless magician the hoar-frost. There had been just snow enough to cover the earth and all its colours with one sheet of pure and uniform white, and just time enough since the snow had fallen to allow the hedges to be freed of their fleecy load, and clothed with a delicate coating of rime. The atmosphere was deliciously calm, soft, even mild, in spite of the thermometer; no perceptible air, but a stillness that might almost be felt; the sky rather grey than blue, throwing out in bold relief the snow-covered roofs of our village, and the rimy trees that rise above them, and the sun shining dimly as through a veil, giving a pale, fair light-like the moon, only brighter. There was a silence, too, that might become the moon, as we stood at A FROST SCENE. 19 our little gate, looking up the quiet street; a Sabbath-like pause of work and play, rare on a work day; nothing was audible but the pleasant hum of frost, that low, monotonous sound which is, perhaps, the nearest approach that life and nature can make to absolute silence. The very wagons, as they come down the hill along the beaten track of crisp, yellowish frost-dust, glide along like shadows; even May's bounding footsteps, at her height of glee and of speed, fall like snow upon * These cogitations have brought us up the hill, halfway across the light and airy common, with its bright expanse of snow and its clusters of cottages, whose turf-fires send such wreaths of smoke sailing up the air, and diffuse such aromatic fragrance around. And now comes the delightful sound of childish voices, ringing with glee and merriment almost from beneath our feet. There is a shouting from the deep, irregular pool, all glass now, where, on two long, smooth slides, half a dozen ragged urchins are slipping along in tottering triumph. Half a dozen steps bring us to the bank just above them. May can hardly resist the temptation of joining her friends, for most of the varlets are of her acquaintance. "Come, May !" and up she springs, as light as a bird. The road is gay now; carts and postchaises, and girls in red cloaks, and afar off, looking almost like a toy, the coach. It meets us fast and soon. How much happier the walkers look than the riders, especially the frost-bitten gentleman, and the shivering lady with the invisible face, sole passengers of that commodious machine! Hooded, veiled, and bonneted as she is, one sees from her attitude how miserable she would look uncovered. Now we have reached the trees--the beautiful trees! never so beautiful as to-day. Imagine the effect of a straight and regular double avenue of oaks, nearly a mile long, arching overhead, and closing into perspective like the roofs and columns of a cathedral, every tree and branch encrusted with the bright and delicate congelation of hoar-frost, white and pure as snow, delicate and defined as carved ivory. How beautiful it is, how uniform, how various, how filling, how satiating to the mind, above all-how melancholy! There is a thrilling awfulness, an intense feeling of simple power in that naked and colourless beauty, which falls on the earth like the thoughts of death-death, pure and glorious, and smiling-but still death. Sculpture has always the same effect on my imagination, and painting never. Colour is life. We are now at the end of this magnificent avenue, and at the top of a steep eminence commanding a wide view over four counties—a landscape of snow. A deep lane leads abruptly down the hill: a mere narrow cart-track, sinking between high banks clothed with fern and furze and broom, crowned with luxuriant hedgerows, and famous for their summer smell of thyme. How lovely these banks are now; the tall weeds and the gorse fixed and stiffened in the hoar-frost, which fringes round the bright prickly holly, the pendent foliage of the bramble, and the deep orange leaves of the pollard oak. Oh, this is A FROST SCENE. 21 rime in its loveliest form ! And there is still a berry here and there on the holly, "blushing in its natural coral" through the delicate tracery; still a stray hip or haw for the birds, who abound here always. The poor birds, how tame they are, how sadly tame! There is the beautiful and rare crested wren, that "shadow of a bird," as White of Selborne calls it, perched in the middle of the hedge, nestling, as it were, amongst the cold, bare boughs, seeking, poor pretty thing, for the warmth it will not find. And there, farther on, just under the bank by the slender runlet, which still trickles between its transparent fantastic margin of thin ice, as if it were a thing of life-there, with a swift, scudding motion, flits, in short low flights, the gorgeous kingfisher, his magnificent plumage of scarlet and blue flashing in the sun like the glories of some tropical bird. He is come for water to this little spring by the hill side-water which even his long bill and slender head can hardly reach, so nearly do the fantastic forms of those garland-like icy margins meet over the tiny stream beneath. It is rarely that one sees the shy beauty so close or so long; and it is pleasant to see him in the grace and beauty of his natural liberty, the only way to look at a bird. We used, before we lived in a street, to fix a little board outside the parlour-window, and cover it with breadcrumbs in the hard weather. It was quite delightful to see the pretty things come and feed, to conquer their shyness, and do away their mistrust. First came the more social tribes, "the robin-redbreast and the wren," cautiously and suspiciously picking up a crumb on the wing, with the little keen bright eye fixed on the window; then they would stop for two pecks; then stay till they were satisfied. The shyer birds, tamed by their example, came next; and, at last, one saucy fellow of a blackbird—a sad glutton, he would clear the board in two minutes used to tap his yellow bill against the window for more. How we loved the fearless confidence of that fine, frank-hearted creature! And surely he loved us. I wonder the practice is not more general. TIMES GO BY TURNS. THE lopped tree in time may grow again; The driest soil suck in some moistening shower : Times go by turns, and chances change by course From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, She draws her favours to the lowest ebb, Her tides have equal times to come and go; Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web; No joy so great but runneth to an end; Not always fall of leaf, nor ever Spring, Not endless night, yet not eternal day : The saddest birds a season find to sing, The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. A chance may win that by mischance was lost; Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all. |