Winter

Hail thou,—of leisure sweet the sire!— Who, round the bright, domestic fire, Dost link fond hearts in strongest ties, And kindle hopes, and mingle sighs, Or 'neath the taper's glancing light Convoke the banquet's festive rite. More beauteous seasons deck the scene With smiling vales, and skies serene, But they with weary toil are prest, And thou dost bring the boon of rest.— 2Fair Flora vaunts her painted flowers, Gay Ceres sports in fragrant bowers, And Bacchus, proud of Autumn's crown Red from the vintage lays him down, But thou, blest Sire, without their care Dost reap the fruit they all prepare.