The Little People of the Snow | Page 3

ruddy, and delicate green,?And tender blue, flowed downward to the floor?And far around, as if the aerial hosts,?That march on high by night, with beamy spears,?And streaming banners, to that place had brought?Their radiant flags to grace a festival.
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And in all that hall a joyous multitude?Of those by whom its glistening walls were reared,?Whirled in a merry dance to silvery sounds,?That rang from cymbals of transparent ice,?And ice-cups, quivering to the skilful touch?Of little fingers. Round and round they flew,?As when, in spring, about a chimney-top,?A cloud of twittering swallows, just returned,?Wheel round and round, and turn and wheel again,?Unwinding their swift track. So rapidly?Flowed the meandering stream of that fair dance,?Beneath that dome of light. Bright eyes that looked From under lily brows, and gauzy scarfs?Sparkling like snow-wreaths in the early sun,?Shot by the window in their mazy whirl.?And there stood Eva, wondering at the sight?Of those bright revellers and that graceful sweep?Of motion as they passed her;--long she gazed,?And listened long to the sweet sounds that thrilled The frosty air, till now the encroaching cold?Recalled her to herself. "Too long, too long?I linger here," she said, and then she sprang?Into the path, and with a hurried step?Followed it upward. Ever by her side?Her little guide kept pace. As on they went?Eva bemoaned her fault: "What must they think--?The dear ones in the cottage, while so long,?Hour after hour, I stay without? I know?That they will seek me far and near, and weep?To find me not. How could I, wickedly,?Neglect the charge they gave me?" As she spoke,?The hot tears started to her eyes; she knelt?In the mid path. "Father! forgive this sin;?Forgive myself I cannot"--thus she prayed,?And rose and hastened onward. When, at last,?They reached the outer air, the clear north breathed A bitter cold, from which she shrank with dread,?But the snow-maiden bounded as she felt?The cutting blast, and uttered shouts of joy,?And skipped, with boundless glee, from drift to drift, And danced round Eva, as she labored up?The mounds of snow, "Ah me! I feel my eyes?Grow heavy," Eva said; "they swim with sleep;?I cannot walk for utter weariness,?And I must rest a moment on this bank,?But let it not be long." As thus she spoke,?In half-formed words, she sank on the smooth snow,?With closing lids. Her guide composed the robe?About her limbs, and said, "A pleasant spot?Is this to slumber in; on such a couch?Oft have I slept away the winter night,?And had the sweetest dreams." So Eva slept,?But slept in death; for when the power of frost?Locks up the motions of the living frame,?The victim passes to the realm of Death?Through the dim porch of Sleep. The little guide,?Watching beside her, saw the hues of life?Fade from the fair smooth brow and rounded cheek,?As fades the crimson from a morning cloud,?Till they were white as marble, and the breath?Had ceased to come and go, yet knew she not?At first that this was death. But when she marked?How deep the paleness was, how motionless?That once lithe form, a fear came over her.?She strove to wake the sleeper, plucked her robe,?And shouted in her ear, but all in vain;?The life had passed away from those young limbs.?Then the snow-maiden raised a wailing cry,?Such as a dweller in some lonely wild,?Sleepless through all the long December night,?Hears when the mournful East begins to blow.
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But suddenly was heard the sound of steps,?Grating on the crisp snow; the cottagers?Were seeking Eva; from afar they saw?The twain, and hurried toward them. As they came,?With gentle chidings ready on their lips,?And marked that death-like sleep, and heard the tale Of the snow-maiden, mortal anguish fell?Upon their hearts, and bitter words of grief?And blame were uttered: "Cruel, cruel one,?To tempt our daughter thus, and cruel we,?Who suffered her to wander forth alone?In this fierce cold." They lifted the dear child,?And bore her home and chafed her tender limbs,?And strove, by all the simple arts they knew,?To make the chilled blood move, and win the breath?Back to her bosom; fruitlessly they strove.?The little maid was dead. In blank despair?They stood, and gazed at her who never more?Should look on them. "Why die we not with her?"?They said; "without her life is bitterness."
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Now came the funeral day; the simple folk?Of all that pastoral region gathered round,?To share the sorrow of the cottagers.?They carved a way into the mound of snow?To the glen's side, and dug a little grave?In the smooth slope, and, following the bier,?In long procession from the silent door,?Chanted a sad and solemn melody.
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"Lay her away to rest within the ground.?Yea, lay her down whose pure and innocent life?Was spotless as these snows; for she was reared?In love, and passed in love life's pleasant spring, And all that now our tenderest love can do?Is to give burial to her lifeless limbs."
They paused.