Trudge, trudge, beat, beat!
Trudge, trudge, weary feet,
Through the crusty snow and sleet;
All the terrors of the winter are abroad in field and street!
Crunch, crunch, slowly, slow
Heavily the oxen go
Plunging through the drifted snow,—
With the white breaths of their shoulders, crispy as the drift below.
Tramp, tramp, by their side,
Sounds the driver’s sturdy stride,
Firmly set in manhood’s pride;
Though his beard is white as winter, by the frost-air glorified.
Woe! woe! Gate of sin!
To the cruel wayside inn,
With its fatal snare to win
The strong feet that on the threshhold hence their slo death-march begin!
Gloom! gloom! In the air
A white darkness everywhere!
Storm has started from his lair,
And the poor, belated woodman reels and wrestles with him, —where?
Cold! cold! Far away
Light of fire, or light of day,
Comes there no reviving ray,
And he sinks to deadly slumber, dreaming of his babies’ play!
Cold! cold! See them stand,—
Strange as sphinxes in the sand,
The swathed oxen, patient, grand;
And below,—an empty bottle slipping from a frozen hand!
Long, long, with eager strain
Pressed against eh window-pane,
Pallid faces look in vain!
While the wretch who made them orphans sits and chuckles o’er his gain!
The Woodman