No music was heard in the grove,
The blackbird and linnet and thrush,
And goldfinch and sweet cooing dove,
Sat pensively mute in the bush:
The leaves that once wove a green shade
Lay withered in heaps on the ground:
Chill Winter through grove, wood, and glade
Spread sad desolation around.

But now the keen north wind 'gan whistle,
And gusty, swept over the sky;
Each hair, frozen, stood like a bristle,
And night thickened fast on the eye.
In swift-wheeling eddies the snow
Fell, mingling and drifting amain,
And soon all distinction laid low,
As whitening it covered the plain.

A light its pale ray faintly shot
(The snow-flakes its splendour had shorn),
It came from a neighbouring cot,
Some called it the Cabin of Mourne: {221}
A neat Irish Cabin, snow-proof,
Well thatched, had a good earthen floor,
One chimney in midst of the roof,
One window, and one latched door.

Escaped from the pitiless storm,
I entered the humble retreat;