WINTER'S FÊTE.
49
Than to be call'd rude churl and miser old.
—I tell thee he's a friend, and Love, who sits
So quiet in the corner, whispering long
In beauty's ear, by the bright evening fire,
Shall join my verdict. Yes, the King of Storms,
So long decried, hath revenue more rich
Than sparkling diamonds.
Look within thy heart,
When the poor shiver in their snow-wreath’d cell,
Or the sad orphan mourns, and if thou find
An answering pity, and a fervent deed
Done in Christ's name, doubt not to be an heir
Of that true wealth, which Winter hoardeth up
To buy the soul a mansion with the blest.
