624 
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 sayage 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 chequer'd sky is one bright glare . 
Mutters the wind at eve : the horizon round 
With angry aspect scowls : down rush the showera. 
And float the deluged paths, and miry fields. 
