by Elizabeth Bentley
THOU, Winter, with protracted sway,
Dost still thy lingering flight delay,
Still 'neath thy veil of snow,
The charms of Nature lie conceal'd,
To solid adamant congeal'd,
The streams forget to flow.
The flow'rets shrink within their beds,
Nor venture forth their tender heads,
For genial Spring they sigh;
Or if, expectant of her birth,
They dare to peep above the earth,
Beneath thy frown they die.
Ah! soon withdraw with gradual hand,
Thy fleecy mantle from the land,
To Spring resign the sway;
She'll call with renovating breath,
The vegetable world from death,
Who gladly shall obey.
Go, flee to Zembla's frost-bound clime,
Where seated on thy throne sublime,
No rival shares thy reign;
Where never verdure clothes the field,
Go, there thy icy sceptre wield,
And quit our happier plain.
The sons of want have felt thy hand,
But lo! a philanthropic band,
Diffuse their beams benign;
Till Spring shall free our frozen soil,
Bid industry resume her toil,
Nor more in languor pine.
Last updated January 14, 2019