38 HENRY KIRKE WHITENS POEMS. 



That floats through neighbouring copse or fairj brake, 



Or lingers playful on the haunted stream. 



Go with the cottar to his winter fire, 



AN'here o'er the moors the loud blast whistles shrill, 



And the hoarse ban-dog bays the icy moon ; 



Mark Avith what awe he lists the wild uproar, 



Silent, and big with thought ; and hear him bless 



The God that rides on the tempestuous clouds 



For his snug hearth, and all his little joys. 



Hear him compare his happier lot with his 



Who bends his way across the wintry wolds, 



A poor night- traveller, while the dismal snow 



Beats in his face, and, dubious of his path. 



He stops, and thinks, in every lengthening blast, 



He hears some village mastitt'"s distant howl, 



And sees, far streaming, some lone cottage light ; 



Then, undeceived, upturns his streaming eyes, 



And clasps his shivering hands ; or, overpower'd, 



Sinks on the frozen ground, weigh'd down with sleep. 



From which the hapless wretch shall never wake. 



Thus the poor rustic warms his heart with praise 



And glowing gratitude, — He turns to bless. 



With honest warmth, bis INIaker and his God. 



And shall it e'er be said, that a poor hind, 



Nursed in the lap of Ignorance, and bred 



In want and labour, glows with nobler zeal 



To laud his Maker's attributes, while he 



Whom starry science in her cradle rock'd, 



And Castaly enchasten'd vrith its dews, 



Closes his eyes upon the holy word ; 



And, blind to all but arrogance and pride, 



Dares to declare his infidelity. 



And openly contemn the Lord of Hosts I 



What is philosophy, if it impart 



Irreverence for the Deity — or teach 



A mortal man to set his judgment up 



Against his Maker's will ? — The Polygar, 



Who kneels to sun or moon, compared with him 



Who thus perverts the talents he enjoys, 



Is the most bless'd of men I — Oh 1 I would walk 



