Tam'd by the cruel season, crowd around In joyless fields, and thorny thickets, leaves Against the window beats; then, brisk, alights And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is: Now, shepherds, to your helpless charge be kind, Baffle the raging year, and fill their pens As thus the snows arise; and foul, and fierce, Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul! Á dire descent! beyond the pow'r of frost; Smooth'd up with snow; and, what is land unknown, 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.. |