Page:The Seasons - Thomson (1791).djvu/228

 Rough tenant of these shades, the shapeless bear, With dangling ice all horrid, stalks forlorn; Slow-pac'd, and sourer as the storms increase, He makes his bed beneath th' inclement drift, And, with stern patience, scorning weak complaint, Hardens his heart against assailing want.

o'er the spacious regions of the north, That see Boötes urge his tardy wain, A boisterous race, by frosty Caurus pierc'd, Who little pleasure know and fear no pain, Prolific swarm. They once relum'd the flame Of lost mankind in polish'd slavery sunk, Drove martial horde on horde, with dreadful sweep Resistless rushing o'er th' enfeebled south, And gave the vanquish'd world another form. Not such the sons of Lapland: wisely they Despise th' insensate barbarous trade of war; They ask no more than simple Nature gives, They love their mountains and enjoy their storms. No false desires, no pride-created wants, Disturb the peaceful current of their days; And thro' the restless ever-tortur'd maze Of pleasure, or ambition, bid it rage. Their rain-deer form their riches. These their tents, Their robes, their beds, and all their homely wealth Supply, their wholesome fare, and cheerful cups. Obsequious at their call, the docile tribe Yield to the sled their necks, and whirl them swift O'er hill and dale, heap'd into one expanse Of marbled snow, as far as eye can sweep With a blue crust of ice unbounded glaz'd. By dancing meteors then, that ceaseless shake A