THE SNOW-STORM. 95

Feels not, within her pallid cheek,

The rich blood mantling warm, Like her who, laughing, shakes the snow

From whiten'd tress and form.

Snow is a tasteful artist,

For, on the frosted pane, I saw its tintless pencil trace

High tower, and arch, and fane, While proudly o'er the dizzy cliffs

A mimic Simplon wound, And old cathedrals rear'd their spires,

With Gothic tracery bound :

I think it hath a tender heart,

For I mark'd it, as it crept To spread a sheltering mantle where

The infant blossom slept ; It doth to earth a deed of love,

Though in a wintry way, And her turf-gown will be greener

For the snow that's fall'n to-day.

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