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 Go teach your servants while the Summer's here, It will not, cannot tarry all the year. Provide then for your family and fold, In Summer's heat prepare for winter's cold. Ah, how the poor man shudders when the shrill, Bleak Northern-Wind comes whistling o'er the hill! See how the sultry months fly his embrace, As he comes galloping from the hills of Thrace! In icy mantle clad, and snowy plumes, Swift on their path the dread destroyer comes. Where'er he sweeps, his chill and piercing breath Blasts vegetation like the hand of death, And rolls the waves tumultuous to the shore, While hill and forest echo with the roar. The monarch pine, her noblest, stateliest birth, Moans, groans, and bends, then prostrate hugs the earth. Tom from its base, the towering mountain ash Is hurled to earth with an appalling crash, And even the oak's gigantic limbs at length Fall crushed below by his impetuous strength. But ere the storm with ten-fold fury raves, The affrighted beasts fly howling to their caves. The ox, clad in his shaggy covering, finds No safe protection from the piercing winds, And in their folds all, save the fleecy flock, Stand chilled and shivering with the tempest's shock.

Waste not these wintry months, like some unthrifty swains, Who lounge about the village inn a-spending of their gains, Or round the village smithy, engaged in idle talk, While at the passers-by they giggle, gape, and gawk; A-straining all the while to warm their fingers' ends,