With her flag of truce unfurled,
        She makes peace o’er all the world—­
Makes bloody battle cease awhile, and war’s unpitying woe;
        Till, its hollow womb within,
        The deep dark-mouthed culverin
Encloses, like a cradled child, the Spirit of the Snow.

        She uses in her need
        The fleetly-flying steed—­
Now tries the rapid reindeer’s strength, and now the camel slow;
        Or, ere defiled by earth,
        Unto her place of birth,
Returns upon the eagle’s wing the Spirit of the Snow.

        Oft with pallid figure bowed,
        Like the Banshee in her shroud,
Doth the moon her spectral shadow o’er some silent gravestone throw;
        Then moans the fitful wail,
        And the wanderer grows pale,
Till at morning fades the phantom of the Spirit of the Snow.

        In her ermine cloak of state
        She sitteth at the gate
Of some winter-prisoned princess in her palace by the Po;
        Who dares not to come forth
        Till back unto the North
Flies the beautiful besieger—­the Spirit of the Snow.

        In her spotless linen hood,
        Like the other sisterhood,
She braves the open cloister when the psalm sounds sweet and low;
        When some sister’s bier doth pass
        From the minster and the Mass,
Soon to sink into the earth, like the Spirit of the Snow.

        But at times so full of joy,
        She will play with girl and boy,
Fly from out their tingling fingers, like white fireballs on the foe;
        She will burst in feathery flakes,
        And the ruin that she makes
Will but wake the crackling laughter of the Spirit of the Snow.

        Or in furry mantle drest,
        She will fondle on her breast
The embryo buds awaiting the near Spring’s mysterious throe;
        So fondly that the first
        Of the blossoms that outburst
Will be called the beauteous daughter of the Spirit of the Snow.

        Ah! would that we were sure
        Of hearts so warmly pure,
In all the winter weather that this lesser life must know;
        That when shines the Sun of Love
        From the warmer realm above,
In its light we may dissolve, like the Spirit of the Snow.

TO THE BAY OF DUBLIN.

My native Bay, for many a year
I’ve lov’d thee with a trembling fear,
Lest thou, though dear and very dear,
    And beauteous as a vision,
Shouldst have some rival far away,
Some matchless wonder of a bay,
Whose sparkling waters ever play
    ’Neath azure skies elysian.

’Tis Love, methought, blind Love that pours
The rippling magic round these shores,
For whatsoever Love adores
    Becomes what Love desireth: 
’Tis ignorance of aught beside
That throws enchantment o’er the tide,
And makes my heart respond with pride
    To what mine eye admireth,