Lovely, as stealing close upon the rear
Of hoary winter, wheeling off his car,
Where polar snow and polar darkness are.

Oft has the heart exulted, at the sight
Of vernal clouds, that grace the morning light.
In calm repose, oft traced the changing hue,
Fringing the vapour with its gold and blue;
While all around, reclothed in beauty's dress,
Flowers of all colours, fraught with loveliness,
Their Maker's hand display, His love confess!

Shall pleasure so refined be felt no more, When the bright day of mercy shall come o'er The world? Ah! no; methinks it cannot be ; Since God has given the eye its power to see; The heart its power to feel; and decked the spring ; That eye might see, and heart His praises sing.

Perpetual spring shall grace, as some will say, The moral beauty of that blissful day.

Perpetual Spring! flowers that ne'er shall fade!
With hue and fragrance permanently made!
Leaves, that shall ever wear a changeless hue!

Nor fall in autumn, nor in spring renew!
Is it in man, whom repetition cloys,
Who loathes a sameness, novelty enjoys,
Who turns disgusted e'en from bliss refined,

If pressed too frequent on the satiate mind;
Is it in man, to relish nature more,

When her variety, her change is o'er?
Would he forego the rapture of the heart,

Felt when earth's beauties into being start,
When wintry winds are gone; when summer air,
Genial and sweet, the lovely landscapes share?
All this forego, for an unchanging clime;
Though glorious as an Eden in its prime?

Ah, no! Grant him the rich variety,

Felt in fierce winter, dreadful though it be;
Seen in the vernal bloom and summer sky;

And when autumnal glories court the eye.

Give to the soul that grace revealed from Heaven; A conscience pacified; and sins forgiven; Let it but feel its Maker's presence nigh,

Where summer shines, or wintry winds are high;

Where snow-flakes fall, or flowery beauties rise;
All shall delight the heart; all charm the eyes.

The man, of meek and humble soul, can find
In roughest season, thoughts to cheer the mind.
His is the pleasure that religion brings;
Or poor, or rich, of mercy still he sings.
If lowly cabin be his mean abode;

His heart as lowly, asks no more of God.

If coarse his fare, and labouring hard, he tries
To meet, scarce able, but the day's supplies;
He murmurs not; but trusts a gracious Heaven,
That all he needs, in mercy, shall be given.
If round his humble dwelling north-winds roar,
And driving snow-storm close and clog its door;
If to the eaves, the cold embankments lay,
Just leaving room for curling smoke to stray;
Think you the inmates shudder with alarm;
Or from the driving tempest fear a harm?
Think you the sacred oracle 's forgot;

Or prayer less frequent in that lowly cot?
The very snows, that seem in wrath to fall,

Begird and guard his little domicil;

Defend from wintry winds, which else would glide Through the rent thatch, or in the crevice wide.

Thus mercy mingles with his humble lot,

Comforts and blessings, he despises not.

Thus from apparent ill, the pious poor

Extract the good, the ill they learn t' endure.

If poor can praise, when north-wind fiercely blows; Can thankful take of Heaven, what Heaven bestows; Let not the rich, in triple vestments rolled,

Complain of winter, with its piercing cold.

Let each to bounteous Heaven their praises send;
The rich and poor their mingling incense blend.

Thus will it be, when Mercy shall unfold That age of bliss-that promised age of gold. Then piety shall hallow every state;

Content, the poor shall be; and meek, the great.

In every heart shall reign sweet charity;

God loved on Earth, as in eternity.