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Pay contribution to the store he gleans ;
Oh Winter ! ruler of th' inverted year, Thy scatter'd hair with Neet like ashes fillid, Thy breath congeald upon thy lips, thy cheeks Fring’d with a beard made white with other snows Than those of age ; thy forehead wrapt in clouds, A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne A Niding car, indebted to no wheels, But urg'd by storms along its Nipp'ry way ; I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art.
Thou hold'st the sun
A pris’ner in the yet undawning East, Shore’ning his journey between morn and noon, And hurrying him, impatient of his stay, Down to the rosy West; but kindly still Compensating his lofs with added hours Of social converse and instructive ease, And gathering at short notice, in one group, The family dispers’d, and fixing thought, Not less dispers’d by day-light and its cares. I crown thee King of intimate delights, Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness, And all the comforts that the lowly roof Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours Of long uninterrupted evening, know. No ratt’ling wheels stop short before these gates ; No powder'd pert proficient in the art Of sounding an alarm, assaults these doors Till the street rings; no stationary steeds Cough their own knell, while, heedless of the found,
The silent circle fan themselves, and quake: But here the needle plies its busy task, The pattern grows, the well-depicted flow'r, Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn, Unfolds its bosom; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, And curling tendrils, gracefully dispos’d, Follow the nimble finger of the fair; A wreath that cannot fade, of flow'rs that blow With most success when all besides decay. The poet's or historian's page, by one Made vocal for th' amusement of the rest; The sprightly lyre, whose treasure of sweet sounds The touch from many a trembling chord shakes out; And the clear voice fymphonious, yet distinct, And in the charming strife triumphant still, Beguile the night, and set a keener edge On female industry ; the threaded steel Flies swiftly, and unfelt the talk proceeds. The volume clos'd, the customary rites Of the last meal commence. A Roman meal; VOL. II.
Such as the mistress of the world once found
Delicious, when her patriots of high note,
Oh evenings worthy of the Gods! exclaim'd
yours, As more illumin'd, and with nobler truths, That I and mine, and those we love, enjoy.
Is winter hideous in a garb like this?
breath of an unsav'ry throng,