But long accustom'd to observe the weather, The labourer cannot lay him down in peace Till he has look'd to mark what bodes the night, He turns the heavy door, thrusts out his head, Sees wreathes of snow heap'd up on ev'ry side, And black and grimily all above his head, Save when a red gleam shoots along the waste To make the gloomy night more terrible Loud blows the northern blast---- He hears it hollow grumbling from afar, Then, gath'ring strength, roll on with doubl'd might, And break in dreadful bellowings o'er his head; Like pithless saplings bend the vexed trees, And their wide branches crack. He shuts the door, And, thankful for the roof that covers him, Hies him to bed. A SUMMER DAY. The dark-blue clouds of night in dusky lines, Drawn wide and streaky o'er the purer sky, Wear faint the morning purple on their skirts. The stars that full and bright shone in the west, But dimly twinkle to the stedfast eye; And seen, and vanishing, and seen again, Like dying tapers smoth'ring in their sockets, Appear at last shut from the face of heav'n; Whilst every lesser flame which shone by night, The flashy meteor from the op'ning cloud, That shoots full oft' across the dusky sky; Or wand'ring fire which looks across the marsh, Beaming like candle in a lonely cot, To cheer the hopes of the benighted trav'ller, Till swifter than the very change of thought, It shifts from place to place, escapes his glance, And makes him wond'ring rub his doubtful eyes; Or humble glow-worm, or the silver moth, Which cast a feeble glimm'ring o'er the green, All die away.---- For now the sun, slow moving in his grandeur, Above the eastern mountains lifts his head. The webs of dew spread o'er the hoary lawn, The smooth clear bosom of the settled pool, The polish'd ploughshare on the distant field, Catch fire from him, and dart their new got beams Upon die dazzled eye.