When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,

And Marian's nose looks red and raw :
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,

Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whoo;

Tu-whit, to-whoo, a merry note,

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

A WINTER SCENE.

Shakspeare.

THE keener tempests rise; and fuming dun,
From all the livid east, or piercing north,
Thick clouds ascend; in whose capacious womb

A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congeal'd.

Heavy they roll their fleecy world along ;

And the sky saddens with the gather'd storm.

Through the hush'd air the whitening shower descends,

At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes

Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the sky,
With a continual flow. The cherish'd fields

Put on their winter robe of purest white.

'Tis brightness all; save where the new snow melts
Along the mazy current. Low the woods
Bow their hoar head; and, ere the languid sun,
Faint from the west, emits his evening ray,
Earth's universal face, deep hid and still,
Is one wild dazzling waste, that buries wide
The works of man. Drooping, the labourer-ox
Stands cover'd o'er with snow, and then demands
The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven,

Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around

The winnowing store, and claim the little boon