Now that I'm here, I think with reason That winter is the fairest season How smooth the daily current flows To ev'ry week's belovèd close! --Just about nine on Friday night, Sole by the lamp's reposeful light My master with a mind perplexed Sets out to choose his Sunday text. Before the stove a while he stands, Walks to and fro with twisted hands, And vainly struggles to determine The theme on which to thread his sermon. Now and again amid his doubt He lifts the window and looks out. --Oh cooling surge of starlit air, Pour on my brow your tide so rare! I see where Verrenberg doth glimmer, And Shepherds' Knoll with snows a-shimmer. He sits him down to write at last, Dips pen and makes the A and O, Which o'er his "Preface" always go. I meanwhile from my post on high Ne'er from my master turn an eye, Look at him now, with far-off gaze Pondering, testing every phrase; The snuffer once he seizes quick And cleans of soot the flaming wick; Then oft in deep abstraction, he Murmurs a sentence audibly, Which I with outstretched bill peck up And fill with lore my eager crop. So do we come by smooth gradation To where begins the "Application." "Eleven!" comes the watchman's shout. My master hears and turns about. "Bedtime!" He rises, takes the light, Nor ever hears my shrill "good-night!" Alone in darkness then I'd be; That has no terrors, though, for me. Behind the wainscot sharply picking I hear a while the death-clock ticking, I hear the marten vainly scoop The earth around the chicken-coop. Along the eaves the night-wind brushes, And through far trees the tempest rushes-- Bird Wood's the name that forest bears, Where rude old Winter raves and tears. Now splits a beech with such a crack That all the valleys echo it back. --My goodness! when these sounds I hear I'm glad a pious stove's so near, Which warms you so the long hours through That night seems fraught with blessings too. --Just now I well might feel afraid, When thieves and murderers ply their trade; 'Tis lucky, faith, for those who are Secured from harm by bolt and bar. How could I call so men would hear me If some one raised a ladder near me? When thoughts like this attack my brain The sweat runs down my back like rain. At two, thank God! again at three, A cock-crow rises clear and free, And with the morning bell at five My whole heart, now once more alive, High in my breast with rapture springs, When finally the watchman sings "Arise, good friends, for Jesus' sake, For bright and fair the day doth break."