Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,

I learnt at last submission to my lot;

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

WINTER EVENING.

[From The Task.]

Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast,

Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,

And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn

Throws up a steaming column, and the cups

That cheer but not inebriate wait on each,