None can with this compare, the dangerous seat
Of generous, active Virtue. What tho’ Frost
Reign everlastingly and ice and snow
Thaw not, but gather—there is that within
Which, where it comes, makes Summer; and in thought
Oft am I sitting on the bench beneath
Their garden-plot, where all that vegetates
Is but some scanty lettuce, to observe
Those from the South ascending, every step
As tho’ it were their last,—and instantly