Winter

The fields, disconsolate and sad, No vegetation bring; No verdure makes the peasant glad, Nor shews the welcome spring. No more the trees, in lively green, Their leafy honours shew; The boughs, where trembling leaves were seen, Exhibit flakes of snow. The plumy race of various dies, Have lost their wonted fire; To thickets close, from low'ring skies, The feather'd tribe retire. The chrystal floods, in fetters bound, No rushing torrents feel; In vain, auspicious gales are found, To waft the glossy keel. In icy fetters they remain, Depriv'd of liberty, 'Till gentle zephyrs loose the chain, And set the captives free.