Page:Pocahontas, and Other Poems.djvu/81

 WINTER'S FETE. 65

And wins loud praise from every piping swain For the proud fete.

Yet, certes, in these days, When wealth is so esteem 'd that he who boasts The longest purse is sure the wisest man, Winter, who thus affords to sprinkle gems, Mile after mile, on all the landscape round, And decks his new-made peers in richer robes Than monarch ever gave, deserves more thanks Than to be call'd rude churl, and miser old. I tell thee he's a friend, and Love, who sits So quiet in the corner, whispering long In beauty's ear, by the bright evening-fire, Shall join my verdict. Yes the King of Storms, So long decried, hath revenue more rich Than sparkling diamonds.

Look within thy heart,

When the poor shiver in their snow-wreath 'd cell, Or the sad orphan mourns, and, if thou find An answering pity, and a fervent deed Done in Christ's name, doubt not to be an heir Of that true wealth which Winter hoardeth up To buy the soul a mansion with the blest.

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