And rest from August’s rigours bring.
O’er Europe’s gloomy climates wide,
Now from the North fierce sweeps the blast;
Verdure and life from earth are past:
With snow man sees it whelm’d betide,
And in closed dwellings must abide.
There all is death and grief! but here,
All life and joy! see, Phœbus smile
More sooth through lucid clouds, the while
Our woods and plains new lustres cheer,