Written in Winter.

Written in Winter.

Now o'er the fading landscape all around His silver mantle hoary Winter spreads: No more the groves with melody resound, No cheerful herbage crowns the lonely meads.

Bleak blows the wind o'er yon deserted plain; While lowering clouds obscure the wintry sky, And sickening Nature sees with tender pain The flowery progeny of Summer die.

Thus, in warm youth, vain Beauty's fleeting power Charms for a moment Love's fantastic eye; Old Age or Sickness crops the short-liv'd flower, And wither'd all its brightest honours lie. But Virtue, arm'd against Time's rudest blast, Shall, like the laurel, ever verdant last.