GAPLAND OR CRAMPTON'S GAP

The fire of forest wood
My mountain woodlands grew,
Warms my thin winter's blood
And boils the tempting brew.
I hear the farmer's sleigh
Come to my hermit's den;
The sleighbell's roundelay
Makes my heart young again.

They let the snowdrift in,
My study's light streams out;
Spirits in raiment thin
Are whiskering about;
The old wives' cheeks are roses,
The young wife's eyes are spells,
The farmer's heart jocose is
And every voice has bells.

Like Santa Claus' party
They muffle up and go,
Their bells, their good nighThearty
Melt in the falling snow;
And as I read my history
Of Northern hosts at Rome,
White camps in silent mystery,
Are pitched around my home.

At morn I look in wonder:
The argent valleys shine
'Twixt mountains drawn asunder, —
Potosi's silver mine.
Blue woods, in plumage hoary,
Descend from peaceful skies,
A seraph host of story
Set guard on Paradise.

One crow like Satan croaking
Flaps o'er the saintly plan,
This silver shield no joking
When he would blacken man;
The rabbit's feet wide springing,
His burrow would conceal,
That tell-tale snowbirds, singing,
Unto the dogs reveal.

The roofs are sheets of paper,
My doves their loving crest;
With lace some subtle draper
(And bridal wreaths) has dressed
The vines, the weeds, the sedges;
In filigree so light.
The quail his covey fledges,
And truly calls " Bob White. "

The mountain laurel's stringers
Are chased in silver net, —
The peach tree's baby fingers
Wear mits of fairy fret,
Like woodmen's blows with axes,
The starving crows at morn,
Caw on their withheld taxes,
Due from the farmer's corn.

Still as the meteor falling
Across the disc of night,
These few strong sounds are calling
Adown earth's urn of white;
Like marble statuary
The noble landscapes stand
In one grand cemetery,
Above a hero-land.

Of old Antietam's story,
The sculptor of the snow
Carves out the allegory,
Like Michael Angelo:
These peaks of alabaster
Entomb the scene of peace,
Where Pollux fought with Castor,
And Freedom came to Greece.