The day now at its height, the pent-up kine Are driven from their flails to take the air. How stupidly they stare! and feel how strange! They open wide their smoking mouths to low, But scarcely can their feeble sound be heard; Then turn and lick themselves, and step by step Move dull and heavy to their flails again. In scatter'd groups the little idle boys With purple fingers, moulding in the snow Their icy ammunition, pant for war; And, drawing up in opposite array, Send forth a mighty fliower of well aim'd balls, Whilst little hero's try their growing flrength, And burn to beat the en'my off the field. Or on the well worn ice in eager throngs, Aiming their race, shoot rapidly along, Trip up each other's heels, and on the surface With knotted shoes, draw many a chalky line. Untir'd of play, they never cease their sport Till the faint sun has almost run his course, And threat'ning clouds, slow rising from the north, Spread grumly darkness o'er the face of heav'n; Then, by degrees, they scatter to their homes, With many a broken head and bloody nose, To claim their mothers' pity, who, most skilful, Cures all their troubles with a bit of bread. The night comes on a pace---- Chill blows the blast, and drives the snow in wreaths. Now ev'ry creature looks around for shelter, And, whether man or beast, all move alike Towards their several homes; and happy they Who have a house to screen them from the cold! Lo, o'er the frost a rev'rend form advances! His hair white as the snow on which he treads, His forehead mark'd with many a care-worn furrow, Whose feeble body, bending o'er a staff, Still shew that once it was the seat of strength, Tho' now it shakes like some old ruin'd tow'r, Cloth'd indeed, but not disgrac'd with rags, He still maintains that decent dignity Which well becomes those who have serv'd their country. With tott'ring steps he to the cottage moves: The wife within, who hears his hollow cough, And patt'ring of iris stick upon the threshold, Sends out her little boy to see who's there. The child looks up to view the stranger's face, And seeing it enlighten'd with a smile, Holds out his little hand to lead him in. Rous'd from her work, the mother turns her head, And sees them, not ill-pleas'd.---- The stranger whines not with a piteous tale, But only asks a little, to relieve A poor old soldier's wants.---- The gentle matron brings the ready chair, And bids him sit, to rest his wearied limbs, And warm himself before her blazing fire. The children, full of curiosity, Flock round, and with their fingers in their mouths, Stand staring at him; whilst the stranger, pleas'd, Takes up the youngest boy upon his knee. Proud of its seat, it wags its little feet, And prates, and laughs, and plays with his white locks. But soon the soldier's face lays off its smiles; His thoughtful mind is turn'd on other days, When his own boys were wont to play around him, Who now lie distant from their native land In honourable, but untimely graves.