Keen as the north wind sweeps the glossy snow.
All is their prize.
Rapacious at the mother’s throat they fly,
And tear the screaming infant from her breast,
E’en beauty, force divine! at whose bright glance
The generous lion stands in softened gaze,
Here bleeds, a hapless, undistinguished prey.
In this inclement month, the feeble rays of the sun are rarely felt, the smaller rivers and ponds are frozen over, and sometimes a strong and sudden frost converts the gliding streams into blocks of solid ice.
An icy gale, oft shifting o’er the pool,
Breathes a blue film, and in its mid career