Of Winter's scenes and ways has been our lay,

Its blithe and solemn nights, its peering day.

Had we the power the chilly blast to quell,

320 To regulate the storms which round us swell, To thaw the hardened glebe, dispel the frost, For snow the genial rain; say, who the cost Could pay, or who supply the wonted need

Of after fruits, of softened, mellow glebe?

325 The encrusted clod would ne'er its hardness yield, In vain the husbandman would plough the field; The plague of insects would in clouds invade

The vineyards, orchards, and destroy the blade;
The humid, thickened air would fevers breed,

330 Continued warmth and sunshine dry the mead. The stormy Winter winds, which o'er the plain

Blow with strong, healthy blasts, correct the grain.

Unchecked, the blade would rise, expand amain

Too soon; its early shoots the frosts detain,

335 The rising wheats await the covering snow,

Their fibres tender sleep unhurt below.

Rough Winter for a time conceals his cheer,

Soon 'valleys laugh and sing,' and hail 'the

corny ear;'

Nature, refreshed, resumes her yearly reign,

340 And fruits, and plants, and flowers spring up

again.

Could foolish man the elements command,

And guide their course by his untoward hand,

Soon famine sore and plague would reign around,

around,

And fell destruction mar the fruitful ground;

345 For corn, the thistles ripe would hold their sway, And weeds supply the place of sweetened hay;

The gold-streaked apple and the ripened peach,