THE POOR MAN’S ADDRESS TO WINTER.
Oh stay a while—unfeeling Winter—grant
A little respite to a hapless wretch;
Who now, though doom’d to misery and want,
On the bare ground his weary limbs can stretch.
He now, when bath’d in night’s unhealthful dews,
Can point his bosom to the solar ray;
That friendly ray shall warmth and life infuse,
And with its cheerful influence bless the day.
He now, at “stern necessity’s command,”
Can roam in quest of his precarious food;
Claim a small pittance from some generous hand,
And for a moment feel each pang subdu’d.
But when thy snows and biting frosts descend,
Where shall he lay his unprotected head?
What blazing hearth its welcome flames shall lend,
What careful hand prepare the needful bed?
And how, when Famine shews his haggard face?
Shall these frail knees assay the treacherous ice;
How bear me safely to some distant place,
Amid the cruel sports of youthful vice?
And oh! how oft shall anguish rend this breast,
When luxury shall pass triumphant by,
In all the pride of costly ermine drest,
And cast on poverty a scornful eye.
But keener pangs, alas! this heart shall feel,
When some poor partner in affliction’s lot
Shall scenes of equal misery reveal,
And pour of deep despair the mournful note.
Oh then, how freely would this hand bestow
A little aid to soothe a brother’s grief,
Wipe the moist traces from the cheek of woe,
And send to every want a kind relief!
But e’en this comfort cruel fate denies,
And nought but powerless pity can I give;
Still doom’d to hear the wretch’s piercing cries,
To hear—and, oh distraction! not relieve.
Then yet a while, unfeeling Winter, rest
Thy hoary head on Zembla’s frozen lap—
But hark! I hear from far thy voice unblest,
And see thy thick’ning storms the heavens enwrap.
Oh! then, in dreadful pity aim thy blow:
Let thy keen blasts congeal this vital dream,
Then o’er these limbs thy snowy mantle throw,
More useful far than Sol’s refulgent beam.
Thus let me leave a world of care and strife,
And wake to scenes of everlasting life.
MONIMIA.