THE keener tempefts rife and fuming dun From all the livid eaft, or piercing north,
Thick clouds afcend; in whofe capacious womb 225 A vap❜ry deluge lies, to fnow congeal'd.
Heavy they roll their fleecy world along ;
And the sky faddens with the gather'd storm.
Thro' the hufh'd air the whit'ning fhow'r defcends,
At first thin wav'ring; 'till at last the flakes
Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day,
With a continual flow. The cherish'd fields
Put on their winter-robe of pureft white.
"Tis brightness all; fave where the new fnow melts
Along the mazy current. Low the woods
Bow their hoar head; and, ere the languid fun
Faint from the weft emits his ev'ning ray,
Earth's univerfal face, deep hid, and chill,
Is one wild dazzling wafte, that buries wide
The works of Man. Drooping, the lab'rer-ox
Stands cover'd o'er with fnow, and then demands
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heav'n,
Tam'd by the cruel season, croud around
The winnowing store, and claim the little boon
Which PROVIDENCE affigns them. One alone,
The red-breaft, facred to the houfhold gods,
Wifely regardful of th' embroiling fky,
In joyless fields, and thorny thickets, leaves
His skiv'ring mates, and pays to trusted Man
His annual vifit. Half-afraid, he first,
Against the window beats; then, brifk, alights
On the warm hearth; then, hopping o'er the floor,
Eyes all the fmiling family afkance,
And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is: 'Till more familiar grown, the table-crumbs
Attract his flender feet.
Pour forth their brown inhabitants.
Tho' timorous of heart, and hard befet
By death in various forms, dark fnares, and dogs,
And more unpitying Men, the garden seeks,
Urg'd on by fearless want.. The bleating kind
Eye the bleak heav'n, and next the glift'ning earth,
With locks of dumb defpair; then, fad-difpers'd,
Dig for the wither'd herb thro' heaps of fnow.
Now, fhepherds, to your helpless charge be kind, Baffle the raging year, and fill their penns With food at will; lodge them below the ftorm, And watch them firict: for from the bell'wing east, In this dire season, oft the whirlwind's wing Sweeps up the burthen of whole wintry plains At one wide waft, and o'er the hapless flocks, Hid in the hollow of two neighb'ring hills, The billowy tempeft whelms; till, upward urg'd, The valley to a fhining mountain swells,
Tipt with a wreath high-curling in the sky.
As thus the fnows arife; and foul, and fierce,
All Winter drives along the darken'd air ;
In his own loofe-revolving fields, the fwain
Difafter'd ftands; fees other hills afcend,
Of unknown joylefs brow; and other fcenes,
Of horrid prospect, fhag the trackless plain :
Nor finds the river, nor the forest, hid
Beneath the formlefs wild;. but wanders on
From hill to dale, ftill more and more aftray;
Impatient flouncing thro' the drifted heaps,
Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home
Ruth on his nerves, and call their vigour forth
In many a vain attempt.. How finks his foul !.
What black despair, what horror fills his heart!
When for the dufky fpot, which fancy feign'd
His tufted cottage rifing thro' the fnow,
He meets the roughness of the middle wafte,
Far from the tract, and bleft abode of Man;
While round him night refiftlefs closes fast,
And ev'ry tempeft, howling o'er his head,
-Renders the favage wilderness more wild.
Then throng the bufy fhapes into his mind,
Of cover'd pits, unfathomably deep,
A dire descent ! beyond the pow'r of frost,
Of faithlefs bogs; of precipices huge,
Smooth'd up with fnow; and, what is land, unknown,
What water, of the still unfrozen fpring,
In the loofe marfh or folitary lake,
Where the frefh fountain from the bottom boils.
These check his fearful steps; and down he finks 305
Beneath the shelter of the fhapeless drift,
Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death,
Mix'd with the tender anguish Nature shoots
Thro' the wrung bofom of the dying Man,
His wife, his children, and his friends unfeen.
In vain for him th' officious wife prepares
The fire fair-blazing, and the vestment warm;
In vain his little children, peeping out
Into the mingling ftorm, demand their fire,
With tears of artlefs innocence. Alas!
Nor wife, nor children, more fhall he behold,
Nor friends, nor facred home. On ev'ry nerve
The deadly Winter feizes; fhuts up fenfe;
And, o'er his inmoft vitals creeping cold,
Lays him along the fnows, a stiffen'd corse,
Stretch'd out, and bleaching in the northern blaft.
AH little think the gay licentious proud,
Whom pleasure, pow'r, and affluence furround;
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 fad variety of pain..
How many fink in the devouring flood,
Or more devouring flame.
By fhameful variance betwixt Man and Man.
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms;
Shut from the common air, and common'ufe
Of their own limbs. How many drink the cup
Of baleful grief, or eat the bitter bread
Of mifery. Sore pierc'd by wintry winds,
How
many fhrink into the fordid hut
Of cheerlefs poverty. How many fhake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind,
Unbounded paffion, madnefs, guilt, remorfe;
Whence tumbled headlong from the height of life,
They furnish matter for the tragic Muse.
Ev'n in the vale, where wifdom loves to dwell,
With friendship, peace, and contemplation join'd,
How many, rack'd with honeft paflions, droop
In deep retir'd diftrefs. How many stand
Around the death-bed of their dearest friends,
And point the parting anguish. Thought fond Man
Of thefe, and all the thousand nameless ills,
That one inceffant struggle render life,
One fcene of toil, of fuff'ring, and of fate,
Vice in his high career would stand appall'd,
And heedlefs rambling Impulfe learn to think;
The confcious heart of Charity would warm,
And her wide with Benevolence dilate;
The focial tear would rise, the social sigh;
And into clear perfection, gradual blifs,
Refining ftill, the focial paffions work.
AND here can I forget the gen'rous band
Who, touch'd with human woe, redreffive fearch'd
Into the horrors of the gloomy jail?
Unpitied, and unheard, where mis'ry moans;
Where fickness pines; where thirst and hunger burn, misfortune feels the lafh of vice.
While in the land of liberty, the land
Whofe ev'ry street and public meeting glow
With open freedom, little tyrants rag'd;
The Jail Committee, in the Year 1729.
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