IN FRENCH FIELDS.
147
HOPE.
TO MY FRIEND FERDINAND D.
Ce soleil-ci n'est pas le véntable;
Je m'attends à mieux.—Ducis.
When winter's last reflections lie
Upon the front of leafless woods,
When still the north-east wind is high,
Whistling and thundering, loth to die,
And snows still sheet the solitudes;
Sudden a warm, warm breath is felt,
That fills the soul with0 love and awe;
Sudden one morn the vapours melt,
And on the ice is seen a belt,
A band, that ushers in the thaw.
Then to the sun the snows exhale,
The soil gets soft and seems to heave;
And Nature tries her marriage veil
In secret, like a virgin pale
While yet far off the wedding eve.
At first, unseen, the green blade peeps
In furrows high-ridged, straight and long;
