Down with the law that binds him thus! Unworthy freemen, let it find No refuge from the withering curse Of GOD and human kind! Open the prisoner’s living tomb, And usher from its brooding gloom The victims of your savage code, To the free sun and air of GOD! No longer dare as crime to brand, The chastening of the Almighty’s hand! * * * * * THE STORM. FROM “SNOW-BOUND.” Snow-bound is regarded as Whittier’s master-piece, as a descriptive and reminiscent poem. It is a New England Fireside Idyl, which in its faithfulness recalls, “The Winter Evening,” of Cowper, and Burns’ “Cotter’s Saturday Night”; but in sweetness and animation, it is superior to either of these. Snow-bound is a faithful description of a winter scene, familiar in the country surrounding Whittier’s home in Connecticut. The complete poem is published in illustrated form by Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., by whose ♦permission this extract is here inserted. ♦ ‘permisssion’ replaced with ‘permission’ UNWARNED by any sunset light The gray day darkened into night, A night made hoary with the swarm And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, As zigzag wavering to and fro Crossed and recrossed the winged snow; And ere the early bedtime came The white drift piled the window-frame, And through the glass the clothes-line posts Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. So all night long the storm roared on: The morning broke without a sun; In tiny spherule traced with lines Of Nature’s geometric signs, In starry flake, and pellicle, All day the hoary meteor fell; And, when the second morning shone, We looked upon a world unknown, On nothing we could call our own. Around the glistening wonder bent The blue walls of the firmament, No cloud above, no earth below,―― A universe of sky and snow! The old familiar sight of ours Took marvelous shapes; strange domes and towers Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, Or garden wall, or belt of wood; A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, A fenceless drift what once was road; The bridle-post an old man sat With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; The well-curb had a Chinese roof; And even the long sweep, high aloof, In its slant splendor, seemed to tell Of Pisa’s leaning miracle.