TO THE SAME .

Winter hath bound the brooks in icy chains;
The bee that murmur'd in the cowslip bell,
Now feasts securely in his honey'd cell;
Silence is on the woods and on the plains,
And darkening clouds and desolating rains
Have marr'd your forest-fountain's quiet spell:
Yet, though retired from these awhile ye dwell,
Your heart's best hoard of poesy remains.
The sports of childhood, the exhaustless store
Of home-born thoughts and feelings dear to each,
Converse, or silence eloquent as speech;
History's rich page, tradition's richer lore
Of tale and legend prized in days of yore; —
These, worthy of the muse, are in your reach.