winds, each from his northern den,
Strewed wrecks of forest branches at our feet.
Old trees all naked shivered in the glen,
And houseless wretches shivered in the street--
It was the time when poor and cold mankind
Should know the welcome of a generous mind.

Few read the lesson--there was passing by
Of squalid poverty by gilded pride,
Wealth from the needy turned away his eye,
Rich doors to richer guests were opened wide--
Pity sought out a fancy scene to sigh
And gave not burial to the poor who died--
Beside the gourmand with his food opprest,
Mothers hugged starving infants to the breast.

Oh, not for this came winter, not for this
Rolled out the storm clouds from the northern zone,
There was a hope that gay luxurious bliss
Would not be happy in itself alone:
There was a hope that wealth might stoop to kiss
Lips paler with cold sorrow than its own--
There was a hope that severed things might blend,
And man, the selfish, soften to the friend.

The old man was but young, but thankless hearts
They say are "sharper than the adder's tooth,"
And ere the Spring came, by inhuman arts
The marble forehead was no longer smooth;
Cold blasts of scorn repaid him his deserts,
Bitter forebodings grew too often sooth,
At twenty years, they say, who knew him then,
He had grown sadder than old withered men.

Spring lay upon the garden--from his hand
Showered the blossoms and the springing buds,
The songsters sang tales of a summer land,
And a new music lived upon the floods:
And o'er the scene there waved a magic wand,
And watched the spirit of the fields and woods,
Laying in golden promise on the earth
Beauties that mocked him in their very birth.

The buds of spring grew withered in his grasp,
The thorns lay hid beneath the rose's leaf,
Leaving a poison deeper than the asp,
Long as the memory of corroding grief.
Rude hands tore off the petals, to unclasp
Too soon the fullness of a lot so brief--
There was ingratitude in bud and flower,
And rude unkindness in man's thankless power.

And all the summer long the rays he gave,
To cheer the weary sons of sweat and toil,
Flashed back with blistering brightness from the wave,
And burned like molten lava from the soil.
And vainly oft the