All Nature reels: till Nature's King, who oft Amid tempestuous darkness dwells alone,

And on the wings of the careering wind

200

Walks dreadfully serene, commands a calm;
Then straight, air, sea, and earth are hush'd at

once.

As yet 'tis midnight deep. The weary Clouds, Slow meeting, mingle into solid gloom. Now, while the drowsy World lies lost in sleep, Let me associate with the serious Night, And Contemplation, her sedate compeer; Let me shake off the intrusive cares of Day, And lay the meddling senses all aside.

205

210

215

Where now, ye lying Vanities of life! Ye ever tempting, ever cheating train! Where are you now? and what is your amount? Vexation, disappointment, and remorse: Sad, sickening thought! and yet deluded Man, A scene of crude disjointed visions past, And broken slumbers, rises still resolved, With new-flush'd hopes, to run the giddy round. Father of light and life! thou Good Supreme! O teach me what is good! teach me Thyself! Save me from folly, vanity, and vice, From every low pursuit! and feed my Soul With knowledge, concious peace, and virtue pure Sacred, substantial, never-fading bliss!

2:20

The keener Tempests come: and fuming dun
From all the livid east, or piercing north,
Thick Clouds ascend; in whose capacious womb

A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congeal'd.
Heavy they roll their fleecy world along;
And the sky saddens with the gather'd storm.
Through the hush'd air the whitening Shower de-
scends,

At first thin wavering; till at last the Flakes 230
Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day
With a continual flow. The cherish'd Fields
Put on their winter-robe of purest white.
'Tis brightness all; save where the new Snow melts
Along the mazy current. Low the Woods
Bow their hoar head; and ere the languid Sun
Faint from the west emits its evening ray,
Earth's universal face, deep-hid and chill,
Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide
The works of man. Drooping, the labourer-ox

235

Stands cover'd o'er with snow, and then demands
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of Heaven,
Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon
Which Providence assigns them. One alone, 245
The Redbreast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets leaves
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted Man
His annual visit. Half afraid, he first

250

Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor, Eyes all the smiling family askance,

And pecks, and starts. and wonders where he is;

255

Till more familiar grown, the table-crumbs
Attract his slender feet. The foodless Wilds
Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The Hare,
Though timorous of heart, and hard beset
By death in various forms, dark snares and dogs,
And more unpitying men, the garden seeks,
Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kind
Eye the bleak Heaven, and next the glistening
earth,

260

With looks of dumb despair; then, sad dispersed, Dig for the wither'd herb through heaps of snow.

Now, Shepherds, to your helpless charge be kind, Baffle the raging year, and fill their pens With food at will; lodge them below the storm, And watch them strict: for from the bellowing east, In this dire season, oft the Whirlwind's wing Sweeps up the burden of whole wintry plains 270 In one wide waft, and o'er the hapless flocks, Hid in the hollow of two neighbouring hills, The billowy tempest whelms; till, upward urged, The valley to a shining mountain swells, Tipp'd with a wreath high-curling in the sky. 275 As thus the snows arise, and, foul and fierce, All Winter drives along the darken'd air, In his own loose-revolving fields, the Swan Disaster'd stands; sees other hills ascend, Of unknown joyless brow; and other Scenes, 290 Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain: Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid

Beneath the formless wild; but wanders on

From hill to dale, still more and more astray;
Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, 285
Stung with the thoughts of Home; the thoughts
of Home

Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth
In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul!
What black despair, what horror fills his heart!
When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign'd 290
His tufted Cottage, rising through the snow,
He meets the roughness of the middle waste,
Far from the track and bless'd abode of man;
While round him Night resistless closes fast,
And every tempest, howling o'er his head,
Renders the savage wilderness more wild.
Then throng the busy shapes into his Mind,
Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep,

A dire deseent! beyond the power of frost;
Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge,

295

300

Smooth'd up with snow; and, what is land unknown,

What water, of the still unfrozen spring,

In the loose marsh or solitary lake,

Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils.

These check his fearful steps; and down he sinks,
Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift,

Thinking o'er all the bitterness of Death;
Mix'd with the tender anguish nature shoots
Through the wrung bosom of the dying man,
His wife, his children, and his friends unseen. 310
In vain for him the officious Wife prepares

The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm ;
In vain his little Children, peeping out

315

Into the mingling storm, demand their sire,
With tears of artless innocence. Alas!
Nor wife, nor children more shall he behold,
Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve
The deadly Winter seizes; shuts up sense;
And, o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold,

Lays him along the snows, a stiffen'd Corse, 320
Stretch'd out, and bleaching in the northern blast.
Ah! little think the gay licentious Proud,
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround;
They who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth,
And wanton, often cruel, riot waste;

Ah! little think they, while they dance along,
How many feel, this very moment, Death,
And all the sad variety of pain.

How many sink in the devouring flood,

325

Or more devouring flame. How many bleed, 330
By shameful variance betwixt man and man.
How many pine in Want, and dungeon-glooms;
Shut from the common air, and common use
Of their own limbs. How many drink the cup
Of baleful Grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of Misery. Sore pierced by wintry winds,
How many shrink into the sordid Hut
Of cheerless poverty How many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the Mind,
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse;

335

340

Ahence tumbled headlong from the height of life,