American Winter

Thick doubling clouds the wintry skies deform,
And, wrapt in vapour, comes the roaring storm;
With snows surcharged, from tops of mountains sails,
Loads leafless trees, and fills the whiten'd vales.
Then Desolation strips the faded plains,
Then tyrant Death o'er vegetation reigns;
The birds of heaven to other climes repair,
And deepening glooms invade the turbid air.
Nor then, unjoyous, winter's rigours come,
But find them happy and content with home;
Their granaries fill'd — the task of culture past
Warm at their fire, they hear the howling blast,
While pattering rain and snow, or driving sleet,
Rave idly loud, and at their window beat:
Safe from its rage, regardless of its roar,
In vain the tempest rattles at the door.
'Tis then the time from hoarding cribs to feed
The ox laborious, and the noble steed;
'Tis then the time to tend the bleating fold,
To strew with litter, and to fence from cold.
The cattle fed, the fuel piled within,
At setting day the blissful hours begin;
'Tis then, sole owner of his little cot,
The farmer feels his independent lot;
Hears, with the crackling blaze that lights the wall.
The voice of gladness and of nature call;
Beholds his children play, their mother smile,
And tastes with them the fruit of summer's toil.
From stormy heavens the mantling clouds unroll'd,
The sky is bright, the air serenely cold.
The keen north-west, that heaps the drifted snows,
For months entire o'er frozen regions blows;
Man braves his blast; his gelid breath inhales,
And feels more vigorous as the frost prevails.