WITH SILVER CHAINS AND GAY ATTIRE.

After the cold, repeated rains, The crusted branches rub the panes, And ere the dawn the pelting hail Adds fury to the roaring gale. So wears the night—the morrow’s sun Proclaims the winter tempest done. And what a morn! A crystal dome Each rounded hill about our home! More radiant is the sight, I ween, Than e’er before has mortal seen.

Betwixt their glassy walls on high The mountain corridors we spy, And lo! all chandeliered are they, Like costly palace of a day! From limb to limb with whitest wreaths The trees are festooned. All the heaths With sun-tipped, icy spikes are bright; And frost-stars glitter in the light. With untold wealth the earth is strewn, Each bush bears jewels, dimmed too soon.

Each stalk is cased in crystal mail, Gem rivals gem in every vale; No gaudier crown has sunflower’s head, With dew and fragrance round it shed. Rich vitreous tubes each breeze shakes down, What shafts and columns gird our town! Fretwork and tinsel fairy fair, Wondrous stalactites everywhere. And so the emulation grows Till Sol dissolves the wafted snows. —George Bancroft Griffith.