And kind well-temper'd fatire, fmoothly keen,
Steals thro' the foul, and without pain corrects.
Or, rifing thence, with yet a brighter flame,
O let me hail thee on fome glorious day,
When to the listening fenate, ardent, crowd
BRITANNIA'S fons to hear her pleaded cause.
Then dreft by thee, more amiably fair,
Truth the foft robe of mild perfuafion wears:
Thou to affenting reason giv'st again

Her own enlightened thoughts; call'd from the heart,
Th' obedient paffions on thy voice attend;
And even reluctant party feels a while

Thy gracious power: as thro' the varied maze
Of eloquence, now smooth, now quick, now ftrong,
Profound and clear, you roll the copious flood.

To thy lov'd haunt return, my happy Mufe:
For now, behold, the joyous winter-days,
Frofty, fucceed; and thro' the blue ferene,
For fight too fine, th' ethereal nitre flies;
Killing infectious damps, and the spent air
Storing afresh with elemental life.

Close crowds the fhining atmosphere; and binds

Our ftrengthened bodies in its cold embrace,
Conftringent; feeds, and animates our blood;
Refines our spirits, thro' the new-ftrung nerves,

In fwifter fallies darting to the brain;
Where fits the foul, intenfe, collected, cool,
Bright as the skies, and as the feafon keen.
All Nature feels the renovating force
Of winter, only to the thoughtlefs eye
In ruin feen. The froft-concocted glebe
Draws in abundant vegetable foul,
And gathers vigour for the coming year.
A ftronger glow fits on the lively cheek
Of ruddy fire and luculent along

The purer rivers flow; their fullen deeps,
Tranfparent, open to the shepherd's gaze,
And murmur hoarser at the fixing frost.

What art thou, froft? and whence are thy keen ftores Deriv'd, thou fecret all-invading power,

Whom even th' illufive fluid cannot fly?
Is not thy potent energy, unfeen,

Myriads of little falts, or hook'd, or shap'd
Like double wedges, and diffus'd immenfe
Thro' water, earth, and ether? Hence at eve,
Steam'd eager from the red horizon round,
With the fierce rage of Winter deep suffus'd,
An icy gale, oft fhifting, o'er the pool
Breathes a blue film, and in its mid career

Arrefts the bickering ftream. The loosened ice,

Let down the flood, and half diffolv'd by day,
Ruftles no more; but to the fedgy bank

Faft grows, or gathers round the pointed stone,
A crystal pavement, by the breath of heaven
Cemented firm; till, feiz'd from shore to shore,
The whole imprison'd river growls below.
Loud rings the frozen earth, and hard reflects
A double noife; while, at his evening watch,
The village-dog deters the nightly thief;
The heifer lows; the distant water-fall
Swells in the breeze; and, with the hafty tread
Of traveller, the hollow-founding plain
Shakes from afar. The full ethereal round,
Infinite worlds disclosing to the view,
Shines out intenfely keen; and, all one cope
Of starry glitter, glows from pole to pole.
From pole to pole the rigid influence falls,
Thro' the ftill night, inceffant, heavy, strong,
And feizes Nature faft. It freezes on;
Till morn, late-rifing o'er the drooping world,
Lifts her pale eye unjoyous. Then appears
The various labour of the filent night:
Prone from the dripping eave, and dumb cascade,
Whofe idle torrents only feem to roar,

The pendant icicle; the froft-work fair,

Where tranfient hues, and fancy'd figures rise;
Wide-spouted o'er the hill, the frozen brook,
A livid tract, cold-gleaming on the morn;
The foreft bent beneath the plumy wave;
And by the froft refin'd the whiter fnow,
Incrufted hard, and founding to the tread
Of early shepherd, as he penfive seeks
His pining flock, or from the mountain top,
Pleas'd with the flippery furface, fwift defcends.
On blithfome frolics bent, the youthful fwains,
While every work of Man is laid at reft,
Fond o'er the river crowd, in various sport
And revelry diffolv'd; where mixing glad,
Happiest of all the train! the raptur'd boy
Lafhes the whirling top. Or, where the Rhine
Branch'd out in many a long canal extends,
From every province fwarming, void of care,
Batavia rushes forth; and as they sweep,
On founding fkates, a thousand different ways,
In circling poife, fwift as the winds, along,
The then gay land is maddened all to joy.
Nor less the northern courts, wide o'er the fnow,
Pour a new pomp. Eager, on rapid fleds,
Their vigorous youth in bold contention wheel

The long-refounding course. Meantime, to raise

The manly ftrife, with highly-blooming charms,
Flush'd by the season, Scandinavia's dames,
Or Ruffia's buxom daughters, glow around.

Pure, quick, and sportful, is the wholesome day;
But foon elaps'd. The horizontal fun,
Broad o'er the fouth, hangs at his utmost noon :
And, ineffectual, ftrikes the gelid cliff:
His azure glofs the mountain ftill maintains,
Nor feels the feeble touch. Perhaps the vale
Relents a while to the reflected ray;

Or from the foreft falls the cluster'd fnow,
Myriads of gems, that in the waving gleam
Gay-twinkle as they scatter. Thick around
Thunders the sport of those, who with the gun,
And dog impatient bounding at the shot,
Worfe than the season, defolate the fields;
And, adding to the ruins of the year,
Diftrefs the footed or the feathered game.

But what is this? Our infant Winter finks,
Divested of his grandeur, should our eye
Aftonish'd fhoot into the Frigid Zone;
Where, for relentless months, continual night
Holds o'er the glittering wafte her starry reign.
There, thro' the prison of unbounded wilds,
Barr'd by the hand of Nature from escape,