A Glance At Winter, Poem by Thomas Odiorne

'Tis winter! frost has blasted all the plains,
And desolation bleak o'er nature reigns!
Convolv'd in darkling clouds upon the poles,
The God of grandeur there his empire holds;
And sends from northern realms, in dreadful force,
The messengers of storm with howling voice;
Throughout the world a deadly venom flies,
Streams turn to glass, and vegetation dies.
O'er hill and plain the sunbeam coldly shines,
The trees are bare, the mountain-spirit whines.
Indignant ocean, heedful lest the host,
That comes with powder'd locks upon the coast,
Should grasp, with frigid hand, his subject-wave,
And, if uncheck'd, his whole domain enslave;
Mad on the foe, tremendous mountains pours,
And breaks his icy chains upon the shores.
Earth, too, though bound and shut from solar joys
Oft bursts her bands with an alarming noise.
No more fair verdure smiles, nor blossom glows,
Reft, ravag'd, buried in unbounded snows.
No more the songs of woodland warblers glide,
To greet the morn, or solace eventide;
Cold, blustering winds embroil the drifted lawn,
And summer charms, like passing friends, are gone.

Ye bounteous souls! remember now the poor,
Nor frown the suffering pilgrim from your door!
Scorn to the wretch! of callous heart so hard,
That to pale Want should show no more regard!
Scorn to the wretch! who ne'er, with streaming eye,
Felt Pity's pang, nor gave for grief a sigh!
The suppliant soul, that looks to Heaven resign'd,
The famish'd mein,that woos you to be kind—
If nature's plea has power the breast to move,
Turn not your eye from such, ye sons of Love!
Joyful it is, when plung'd in deep distress,
To catch a look of earnest wish to bless!
Joyful it is, with taste of Heaven imbued,
An open heart to see, so kind, so good,
That its warm flame the winter cannot chill,
That its live spirit still delights to thrill!

O say, thou rich one! who, in fortune's smile,
Liv'st with a haughty soul, in splendid style;
Perhaps with breast of snow and heart of steel,
With no solicitude for other's weal;
May not dire haps, or unforeseen mistakes,
Scatter each vision thy proud fancy makes;
Thyself cast out in alien climes to roam,
The ground thy resting-place, the world thy home?
Or, if among thy jovial friends distress'd,
Where, while in splendour, thou wast much caress'd;
Where courteous tongues pass'd compliments along,
And fair professions made, like idle song;
Where, like the noisy streamlet o'er the ground,
Smooth words flow'd useless, but for pleasant sound:—
Dost think, from such connexions form'd midst cares,
Which interest prompts, or which amusement shares,
To gather vestments, which shall keep thee warm,
Or gain a shelter from the wintry storm?
Dost think, when poverty's cold hand has seiz'd
Thy wither'd frame, by thirst and hunger teas'd,
That thou canst step, as wont, the rich man's doors,
And, as a welcome guest, enjoy his stores?
Ah, no! on sudden, when, with aspect dire,
Misfortune frowns, lo! plighted friends retire!
Now passing, mark the cold, averted look
Of one that pleas'd, but now by him forsook!
O! virtue's friend! shouldst thou too meet neglect,
Since wealth is deem'd the standard of respect,
Be patient ever! thou one day shalt rise—
If not in earthly climes—in brighter skies!
And shouldst thou find, amongst the plausive train,
Thousands of bland professions false and vain;
Induc'd to think no passion void of pelf,
No charity that loses sight of self—
O, wake! arouse from thy delusive dreams,
Nor take the world in all things as it seems!
No! there's a flame of sympathy refin'd,
An ever-during incense of the mind!
And there's a friend, whose bosom honour knows,
Glads in our joys, and grieves in all our woes;
Attach'd the more, while others take their flight—
Does he not seem, as 'twere, a saint of light?
O! is there aught (but 'twere in vain to scan)
So lovely as benevolence in man?
Depriv'd of which—say what, beneath the moon,
Would make the world a real hell so soon?

As in my morn of life it was my lot,
Lone seated at the window of some cot,
By chance to view the seraph doves that coo'd,
Hovering around, as of celestial mood;
So have I seen, in Friendship's blissful height,
Grateful endearments cherish'd with delight;
A mutual confidence of souls, perceiv'd;
Kind hints at faults, without offence conceiv'd;
Freedom of thought, averse from vain display;
A faithfulness too noble to betray;
Good sense enrich'd with sentiment benign,
Which mov'd the soul as 'twere by power divine;
A fervid zeal to serve, with looks which show'd
The testimonies, that the spirit glow'd;
An intercourse, where heart with heart grew warm,
And gave to Friendship a peculiar charm.

Hast thou not met, perchance, misfortune stern,
And felt commiseration's power in turn?
Perchance, hast thou not, in thy youthful prime,
Been left in some inhospitable clime,
Worn by disease, but worn by trouble more,
Thy thought long pondering on th' eternal shore?
And when physicians no receipt could find,
To suit the wound, that rankled in the mind;
Hast thou not, as perchance a friend came there,
Rose to new life, as rescued from despair?
When o'er thy fate with mingling grief he hung,
And urg'd the cause whence thy affliction sprung;
Did not the power of Sympathy alone,
Charm every wound, and silence every groan?
For mental pains, when drugs have no control,
Yield to the soothings of a kindred soul.

Yet when severe afflictions prey,
Seeming to wear the life away;
Should not man in Heaven confide,
And mount above the whelming tide?
'Tis not best, in gloomy mood,
Ever on life's ills to brood;
As if we should enjoy, no more,
Peace this side th' eternal shore;
As if each darling hope were gone,
Never, never to return:—
From a winter of the heart,
Oft a joyful spring will start;
When, in triumph of the mind,
As we cast a look behind
On distresses which are past,
Peace may bless our days at last.
But since on earth dire ills assail,
And hopes, and fears, and cares prevail,
Need we to be taught to know
There's no perfect bliss below?
That, oft, the sorrows which we feel,
Not Friendship's power itself can heal,
So deep they pierce, so strong they reign?
Yet can Religion's balm alone,
Solace the wounded spirit's tone,
However horrible the pain.