Thomson and Pollok: containing The seasons, by James Thomson, and The course of time, by Robert Pollok, A. M.

142 WINTER.
Flush'd by the season, Scandinavia's dames,
Or, Russia's buxom daughters, glow around.
Pure, quick, and sportful is the wholesome day;
But soon elapsed. Thhoi:izontal sun, 780
Broad o'er the south, hangs at his utmost noon:
And, iniflectual,-strike thie gelid cliff:
His azure gloss the mountain still maintains,
Nor feels the feeble touch. Perhaps the vale
Relents awhile to the reflected ray: 785
Or from the forest falls the cluster'd snow,
Myriads of gems, that in the waving gleam
Gay-twinkle as they scatter. Thick around
Thunders the sport of those, who with the gun,
And dog impatient bounding at the shot, 790
Worse than the Season, desolate the fields;
And, adding to the ruins of the year,
Distress the footed or the feather'd game.
But what is this? our infant Winter sinks
Divested of his grandeur, should our eye 795
Astonish'd shoo' into the frigid zone;
Where, for relentless months, continual Night
Holds o'er the glittering waste her starry reign.
There, through the prison of unbounded wilds,
Barr'd by the hand of Nature from escape, 800
Wide roams the Russian exile. Nought around
Strikes his sad eye but deserts lost in snow;
And heavy-loaded groves; and solid floods,
That stretch, athwart the solitary vast,
Their icy horrors to the frozen main; 805
And cheerless towns far distant, never bless'd,
Save when its annual course the caravan
Bends to the golden coast of rich Cathay,*
With news of humankind. Yet there life glows;
Yet cherish'd there, beneath the shining waste, 810
The furry nations harbour: tipp'd with jet,
Fair ermines, spotless as the snows they press;
* The old name for China.