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قراءة كتاب The Passing of the Storm and Other Poems
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 5
tree,
To strew the desert wastes below
With scattered drift-wood and debris;
Such is the dreadful avalanche,
From dangers in such varied form,
And the discomforts of the storm,
Small wonder 'twas the mountaineer
Left not his fireside's ruddy cheer;
But from behind the bolted door
Discerned the tempest's strident roar,
Or heard the pendent icicle,
Which, from the eaves, in fragments fell,
As some more formidable blast
In paroxysmal fury passed.
It shook with intermittent throes,
Of boisterous, spasmodic power,
A most substantial hut, which rose,
As summer breeze sways grass or flower
And e'en the dull immobile ground
Trembled in sympathy profound.
Such was the fury of the storm,
As if the crystal flakes had met
With militating hosts, to swarm
In siege about its parapet.
When every rampant onslaught failed,
The blast in wanton frenzy wailed.
As if with unspent rage the wind
Felt much disgruntled and chagrined,
And though of nugatory force,
Could vent its spleen with accents hoarse.
As some beleaguered tower of old
Who dashed against its walls of stone,
Which were not swayed nor overthrown;
As vicious strokes delivered well,
Innocuous and futile fell.
Then watched the walls withstand the strain,
And cursed and gnashed their teeth in vain.
Beneath a massive pinnacle,
Whose weird, forbidding shadows fell,
And gulch and forest overcast
With mantle ominous and vast,
Nestling amid the spruce and pine,
Which fringe the edge of timberline,
This miner's cabin, quaint and rude,
From the surrounding forest hewed,
With primitive, yet stable form,
Withstood the onslaught of the storm,
And at the entrance of a dell
Stood as a rustic sentinel.
Beneath a pine's protecting skirt,
It reared its modest roof of poles,
Laid close, then overlaid with dirt,
To cover up the cracks and holes;
The intervals between the logs
Were daubed with mud from mountain bogs.
The ground did service as a floor
In this, as many huts before;
So beaten down beneath the tread,
The plastic clay, compressed and sleek,
Was level and as hard as brick.
Protruding boulders, smooth and bare,
Exposed their faces here and there;
And with their surfaces displayed,
A primitive mosaic made.
And, terminating in a stack,
Some feet above the cabin's roof,
The fireplace, comfortless and black,
Arose the dingy form uncouth.
This object of depressing gloom,
Built in the corner of the room,
When filled with lurid tongues of flame,
A cheerful cynosure became.
The furnishings within were crude;
A table fastened to the wall
Had been with some exertion hewed
From aspen timbers straight and tall,
And was, in lieu of table legs,
Supported by protruding pegs.
A cracker box, with shelves inside,
The leading corner occupied,
And made an ample cupboard there,
Where tin supplanted chinaware.
A frying pan, which from a nail
Suspended, dripped a greasy trail.
Framed from the hemlock's poles and boughs,
Were not elaborate affairs;
While boxes filled the place of chairs.
Tacked on the unpretentious wall
Were advertisements, great and small,
While lithograph and crayon scenes,
Clipped from the standard magazines,
Comprised a mimic gallery,
Which broke the wall's monotony.
No carpets were upon that floor,
But at the bottom of the door
The rug, against its yawning crack,
Consisted of a gunny-sack.
Nor was there lock upon that door,
The guardian of sordid pelf;
The traveller, distressed and sore,
Might enter there and help himself.
Within this weather-beaten hut
Of logs, by many a tempest tried,
With doors and windows closely shut,
To keep the genial warmth inside;
A group of hardy mountaineers,
Blockaded by the winter's snow,
Sat by the fireside's ruddy glow.
Some old, and old beyond their years,
As disappointments, toil and strife,
Which constitute the miner's life,
Must operate with process sure,
For years, in stern privation spent,
Are traced in seam and lineament,
Which gives the patriarchal face
Its rugged dignity and grace.
"Exceeding the tremendous height
Of brother peaks, on left and right."
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