Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Ode to Winter
Ode to Winter.
Forth from his cell of frost hoar Winter comesAnd stalks in sullen majesty abroad; He shakes his silvery locks And scatters wide their snows.
Though oft the storm, at Winter's stern behest,Flaps his rude pinions through the passive air And robs the smiling land Of Spring's benevolence,
Still can the sire a placid mien assume,And oft, as melancholy o'er the mind, O'er Nature's saddened face He casts a tranquil gloom.
He, too, instructs; he paints to moral eye,In tints expressive, portraitures of woe; And what more meet to teach Humanity to man?
He gives the redbreast confidence in him,Whom native instinct teaches it to shun, And from the hand it fears It takes its daily dole.
When in his grasp he chains the obedient earth,And Nature bids him for awhile refrain, He smiles beneath the sun, And melts away in tears.
Winter! thou fittest season for the mindTo drink at Erudition's fostering spring, Be hailed thy sombre rule, Nor deemed tyrannical!
Can I forget the social evening tale,When, round the blazing hearth, the kindred group Sat, where no cares were rife, Telling their dreams of joy?
Now, where thou visit's! not, I roam,[1] estrangedFrom all that's dear to me, beheld no more, For me thou hast a charm, Which Summer never owns.
Summer, although perpetually she wearsHer spangled vest, nor shades her brows with frowns, Can never be esteemed As, social Winter, thou.
- ↑ This was written in India.