On Crossing the Range of High Land between Stone and Market Drayton, January 4th, 1820

Dread inmate of the northern zone!
And hast thou left thy ancient throne
On Zembla's hills of snow,
Thine arrowy sleet and icy shower
On us, unbroken to thy power,
With reckless hand to throw?

Enough for us thy milder sway,
The yellow mist, the shortened day,
The sun of fainter glow;
The frost which scarce our verdure felt,
And rarely seen, and but to melt
The wreath of transient snow.

I met thee once by Volga's tide,
Nor feared thy terrors to abide
On Valdai's sullen brow;
But little thought on English down
Thy darkest wrath and fiercest frown
So soon again to know.

Oh for my schubfs accustomed fold,
Which then, in ample bear-skin rolled,
Defied thy dread career!
Oh for the cap of sable warm,
Which guarded then from pinching harm
My nose, and cheek, and ear!

Mine old kibitka, where art thou?
Gloves, boots, peketch, — I need ye now,-
Sold to a Lemberg Jew!
In single vest, on Ashley Heath,
My shrinking heart is cold as death,
And fingers ghastly blue!