More thickly flew the snow and fast; The wind developed and the blast Soon churned the tempest, till the air Seemed but a white and whirling glare, Through which the penetrating eye No shape nor contour might descry. The poor belated traveller, Who braved the rigor of that day, Might thank his bright protecting star,-- If orbs of pure celestial ray, Far in the scintillating skies, Preside o'er human destinies,-- That he, bewildered and distressed, Had warded off exhaustion's rest, And in that maze of pine and fir Escaped an icy sepulchre. When driving snows accumulate, They yield to the tremendous weight. And down the mountain's rugged sides The mass with great momentum slides, Cleaving the fragile spruce and pine, Which stand in its ill-fated line, As bearded grain, mature and lithe, Goes down before the reaper's scythe. Or, when the cyclone's baleful force, In flood of atmospheric wrath, Pursues its devastating course, Leaving but ruin in its path; Despoiling in a moment's span The most exalted works of man; Or waters, suddenly set free, When some black thunder cloud is rent, Rush down a wild declivity With irresistible descent, Depositing on every hand A layer of sediment and sand; With swift and spoliating flow, Uprooting many a noble tree, To strew the desert wastes below With scattered drift-wood and debris; Such is the dreadful avalanche, Which rends the forest, root and branch. 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 Besieged by warriors stern and bold, 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.