Not seldom from the uproar I retired Into a silent bay, or sportively

Glanced sideway, leaving the tumultuous throng, To cut across the reflex of a star;

Image, that, flying still before me, gleam'd

Upon the glassy plain: and oftentimes,
When we had given our bodies to the wind,
And all the shadowy banks on either side

Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still
The rapid line of motion, then at once
Have I, reclining back upon my heels,

Stopp'd short; yet still the solitary cliffs

Wheel'd by me— even as if the earth had roll'd

With visible motion her diurnal round!
Behind me did they stretch in solemn train,
Feebler and feebler, and I stood and watch'd

Till all was tranquil as a summer sea.

SOUTHEY.

THOUGH now no more the musing ear
Delights to listen to the breeze,

That lingers o'er the green-wood shade,
I love thee, Winter! well.

Sweet are the harmonies of Spring,

Sweet is the Summer's evening gale,

And sweet the Autumnal winds that shake

The many-coloured grove.

And pleasant to the sober'd soul

The silence of the wintry scene,

When Nature shrouds herself, entranced

In deep tranquillity.

Not undelightful now to roam
The wild heath sparkling on the sight;
Not undelightful now to pace

The forest's ample rounds,

And see the spangled branches shine,
And mark the moss of many a hue
That varies the old tree's brown bark,
Or o'er the grey stone spreads.
And mark the cluster'd berries bright,
Amid the holly's gay green leaves;
The ivy round the leafless oak,

That clasps its foliage close.

So Virtue, diffident of strength,
Clings to Religion's firmer aid,
And by Religion's aid upheld,
Endures calamity.

Nor void of beauties now the Spring,
Whose waters hid from Summer sun,
Have soothed the thirsty pilgrim's car
With more than melody.

The green moss shines with icy glare,
The long grass bends its spear-like form,
And lovely is the silvery scene

When faint the sunbeams smile.

Reflection, too, may love the hour
When Nature, hid in Winter's grave,
No more expands the bursting bud,
Or bids the flow'ret bloom.

For Nature soon in Spring's best charms,
Shall rise revived from Winter's grave,

Expand the bursting bud again,

And bid the flower re-bloom.

THE cherish'd fields

Put on their winter robe of purest white:

'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts

The winnowing store, and claim the little boon
Which Providence assigns them. One alone,
The red-breast, sacred to the household gods,
Wisely regardful of th' embroiling sky,
In joyless fields and thorny thickets, leaves
His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man