A GOOD WORD FOR WINTER. 41 



The stag in limpid currents with surprise 



Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise : 



The spreading oak, the beech, the towering pine, 



Glazed over in the freezing ether shine ; 



The frighted birds the rattling branches shun, 



&quot;Which wave and glitter in the distant sun, 



When, if a sudden gust of wind arise, 



The brittle forest into atoms flies, 



The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends, 



And in a spangled shower the prospect ends.&quot; 



It is not uninstructive to see how tolerable Ambrose is, so 

 long as he sticks manfully to what he really saw. The 

 moment he undertakes to improve on Nature he sinks into 

 the mere court poet, and we surrender him to the jealousy 

 of Pope without a sigh. His &quot;rattling branches&quot; and 

 &quot; crackling forest &quot; are good, as truth always is, after a 

 fashion ; but what shall we say of that dreadful stag which, 

 there is little doubt, he valued above all the re&t, because it 

 was purely his own ? 



The damper snow tempts the amateur architect and 

 sculptor. His Pentelicus has been brought to his very 

 door, and if there are boys to be had (whose company beats 

 all other recipes for prolonging life), a middle-aged Master 

 of the Works will knock the years off his account and 

 make the family Bible seem a dealer in foolish fables, by a 

 few hours given heartily to this business. First comes the 

 Sisyphean toil of rolling the clammy balls till they refuse 

 to budge farther. Then, if you would play the statuary, 

 they are piled one upon the other to the proper height ; or 

 if your aim be masonry, whether of house or fort, they 

 must be squared and beaten solid with the shovel. The 

 material is capable of very pretty effects, and your young 

 companions meanwhile are unconsciously learning lessons 

 in aesthetics. From the feeling of satisfaction with which 

 one squats on the damp floor of his extemporised dwelling, 

 I have been led to think that the backwoodsman must get 

 a sweeter savour of self-reliance from the house his own 

 hands have built than Bramante or Sansovino could ever 

 give. Perhaps the fort is the best thing, for it calls out 



