Lesson 12 It Snows

Sarah Josepha Hale (b. 1788?, d.1879) was born in Newport, N.H. Her maiden name was Buell.In 1814 she married David Hale, an eminent lawyer, who died in 1822. Left with five children to support, she turned her attention to literature. In 1828 she became editor of the"Ladies'Magazine." In 1837 this periodical was united with"Godey's Lady's Book," of which Mrs. Hale was literary editor for more than forty years.

"It snows!"cries the Schoolboy,"Hurrah!"and his shout Is ringing through parlor and hall,

While swift as the wing ofa swallow,he's out,

And his playmates have answered his call;

It makes the heartleap butto witness theirjoy;

Proud wealth has no pleasures, I trow,

Like the rapture thatthrobs in the pulse ofthe boy

As he gathers his treasures of snow;

Then lay notthe trappings ofgold on thine heirs,

While health and the riches of nature are theirs.

"It snows!"sighs the Imbecile,"Ah!"and his breath

Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight;

While, from the pale aspect ofnature in death,

He turns to the blaze of his grate;

And nearer andnearer,his soft-cushioned chair

Is wheeled toward the life-giving flame;

He dreads a chill puffofthe snow-burdened air,

Lest it wither his delicate frame;

Oh! smallis the pleasure existence can give,

When the fear we shall die only proves that we live!

"It snows!"cries the Traveler,"Ho!"andthe word

Has quickened his steed's lagging pace;

The windrushes by,butits howlis unheard,

Unfelt the sharp drift in his face;

For brightthroughthe tempesthis own home appeared,

Ay, though leagues intervened, he can see:

There's the clear,glowing hearth,andthe table prepared,

And his wife with her babes at her knee;

Blest thought!how itlightens the grief-laden hour,

That those we love dearest are safe from its power!

"It snows!" cries the Belle, "Dear, how lucky!" and turns

From her mirror to watch the flakes fall,

Like the first rose ofsummer,her dimpled cheekburns!

While musing on sleigh ride and ball:

There are visions ofconquests,ofsplendor,andmirth,

Floating over each drear winter's day;

But the tintings ofHope,on this storm-beaten earth,

Will melt like the snowflakes away.

Turn, then thee to Heaven,fair maiden,forbliss;

That world has a pure fount ne'er opened in this.

"It snows!"cries the Widow,"O God!"and her sighs

Have stifled the voice of her prayer;

Its burden ye'll readin her tear-swollen eyes,

On her cheek sunk with fasting and care.

'T is night,and her fatherless askher forbread,

But"He gives the young ravens their food,"

And she trusts till her darkhearth adds horror to dread.,

And she lays on her last chip of wood.

Poor sufferer!that sorrow thy God only knows;

'T is a most bitter lot to be poor when it snows.