When stone, and herb, and tree,
And all beneath heaven's lurid dome
By wintry majesty,
In his stern age, were clad with snow,
And human hearts beat chill and slow.
It was a fearful hour
For one so young and fair:
The woods had not one sheltering bower,
The earth was trackless there,
The very boughs in silver slept,
As the sea-foam had o'er them swept.
Snow after snow came down,
The sky look'd fix'd in ice;
She deem'd amid the season's power,
Her love would all suffice
To keep the source of being warm,
And mock the terrors of the storm.
Love was her world of life.
She thought but of her heart,
And knowing that the winter's strife
Could not its hope dispart,
She dream'd not that its home of clay
Might yield before the tempest's sway--
Or judged that passion's power--
Passion so strong and pure.
Might mock the snow-flake's wildering shower,
Proud that it could endure,
As woman oft in times before
Had peril borne as much or more.
She went--dawn past o'er dawn,
None saw her face again,
The eyes she should have gazed upon,
Look'd for her face in vain--
The ear to which her voice was song,
Her voice had sought--how vainly long!
There is in Saco's vale
A gently swelling hill,
Shadows have wrapt it like a veil
From trees that mark it still,
Around, the mountains towering blue
Look on that spot of saddest hue.
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