Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps,
Stung with the thoughts of home; the thoughts of home
Rush on his nerves, and call their vigour forth
In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul!
What black despair, what horror fills his breast!
When for the dusky spot, which fancy feign’d
His tufted cottage rising through the snow,
He meets the roughness of the middle waste
Far from the track and blest abode of man,
While round him might resistless closes fast,