Classic Poem

The wintry wind blew loud and cold
And whirl'd in drifted heaps the snow
No moon-beam cheer'd the gloomy night
No trembling star was seen to glow.

Poor Anna, with a sinking heart,
Sat list'ning to each sweeping blast,
Which o'er her low unshelter'd cot,
With still increasing fury past.

With fond solicitude she view'd
Her sleeping infant as it lay;
The starting tear stood in her eye,
She mourn'd its father far away.

As if to charm her griefs to rest
The little cherub sweetly smil'd:
The weeping mother in her arms,
Still closer press'd her darling child.

“Ah could thy smiles, my lovely boy,
“Soothe all my anxious fears to rest!
“Ah me! how little dost thou know
“The secret anguish of my breast.

“Unconscious of impending ills,
“How happy now thou seem'st to be;
“Thus calmly may'st thou ever sleep,
“From all thy mother's terrors free.

“Ah where o'er ocean's mountain-waves,
“Toss'd by the rough tempestuous wind,
“Does thy poor father brave the storm,
“While thoughts of home oppress his mind!

“Perhaps upon some rocky shore,
“Full many a gallant seaman's grave,
“E'en now the shatter'd vessel drives,
“Or sinks beneath the stormy wave.

“Yet, yet, have hope my fainting heart,
“Ah sink not to despair a prey;
“Sure heav'n a mother's prayers will hear,
“And spare his life who's far away.