
294 THE FIRST OF DECEMBER. 

On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; 
} A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; 
| Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall to wall, 
WN Maugre the farmer’s sighs ; and, at the gate, 
| A tapering turret overtops the work. 
And when his hours are numbered, and the world 

WEE | Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, 
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, 
Built in an age, the mad wind’s night-work, 

The frolic architecture of the snow. 

| i fl Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art 

The Hirst of December. 
Southey 
“ Delights to listen to the breeze 
That lingers o’er the shade, 
I love thee, Winter! well. 
Sweet are the harmonies of Spring; 
Sweet is the Summer’s evening gale; 
And sweet the Autumnal winds that shake 
The many-colored grove, 
i 
) HOUGH no more the musing ear 
k 



