524 POEMS. 



O'er the white paths he whirls the rolling hoop, 

 Or triumphs in the dusty fields of taw. 



Not so the museful sage : abroad he walks 

 Contemplative, if haply he may find 

 What cause controls the tempest's rage, or whence 

 Amidst the savage season winter smiles. 



For days, for weeks, prevails the placid calm. 

 At length some drops prelude a change : the sun 

 With ray refracted bursts the parting gloom ; 

 When all the chequered sky is one bright glare , 

 Mutters the wind at eve : the horizon round 

 With angry aspect scowls : down rush the showcrs r 

 And float the deluged paths, and miry fields. 



