ELEGY, WRITTEN AT THE APPROACH OF WINTER. [IBID.] THE Sun far southward bends his annual way, No mark of vegetable life is seen, No bird to bird repeats his tuneful call ; Save the dark leaves of some rude evergreen, Save the lone red-breast on the moss-grown wall. Where are the sprightly prospects Spring supplied, The may-flower'd hedges scenting every breeze; The white flocks scattering o'er the mountain's side, The woodlarks warbling on the blooming trees? Where is gay Summer's sportive insect train, That in green fields on painted pinions play'd? The herd at morn wide pasturing o'er the plain, Where is brown Autumn's evening mild and still, What time the ripen'd corn fresh fragrance yields, What time the village peoples all the hill, And loud shouts echo o'er the harvest fields ? To former scenes our fancy thus returns, To happier lands then restless fancy flies, Where Indian streams through green savannahs flow; Where brighter suns and ever tranquil skies Bid new fruits ripen, and new flow'rets blow. Let Truth these fairer, happier lands survey- And one brown hue the sun-burnt plain deforms. There oft, as toiling in the sultry fields, Or homeward passing on the shadeless way, His joyless life the weary labourer yields, And instant drops beneath the deathful ray. Who dreams of Nature, free from Nature's strife? For me, long toil'd on many a weary road, For me, while Winter rages round the plains, With his dark days I human life compare: Not those more fraught with clouds, and winds, and rains, Than this with pining pain and anxious care. O! whence this wondrous turn of mind our fate- We ever murmur at our present state; And yet the thought of parting breaks our rest? Why else, when heard in evening's solemn gloom, Tolls some poor lifeless body to the tomb, Thus thrill my breast with melancholy pain? The voice of Reason thunders in my ear: Thus thou, ere long, must join thy kindred clay; No more those nostrils breathe the vital air, O Winter, o'er me hold thy dreary reign! Enough has Heaven indulg'd of joy below, There is, who deems all climes, all seasons fair; She finds in Winter many a view to please; The morning landscape fring'd with frost-work gay, The sun at noon seen through the leafless trees, The clear calm ether at the close of day: She marks th' advantage storms and clouds bestow, When moist Aquarius pours the fleecy snow, That makes th' impregnate glebe a richer harvest bear: She bids, for all, our grateful praise arise, To Him whose mandate spake the world to form; Gave Spring's gay bloom, and Summer's cheerful skies, And Autumn's corn-clad field, and Winter's sounding storm. THE TEMPESTUOUS EVENING, AN ODE. [IBID.] THERE's grandeur in this sounding storm, Beneath the blast the forests bend, |