ON THE DARK, STILL, DRY, WARM WEATHER.

OCCASIONALLY HAPPENING IN THE WINTER MONTHS.

Th' imprison'd winds slumber within their caves,
Fast bound: the fickle vane, emblem of change,
Wavers no more, long settling to a point.

All Nature nodding seems composed: thick steams,
From land, from flood up-drawn, dimming the day,
" Like a dark ceiling stand: " slow through the air
Gossamer floats, or, stretch'd from blade to blade,
The wavy net-work whitens all the field.

Push'd by the weightier atmosphere, up springs
The ponderous mercury, from scale to scale
Mounting, amidst the Torricellian tube.

While high in air, and poised upon his wings,
Unseen, the soft, enamour'd woodlark runs
Through all his maze of melody; the brake,
Loud with the blackbird's bolder note, resounds.

Sooth'd by the genial warmth, the cawing rook
Anticipates the spring, selects her mate,
Haunts her tall nest-trees, and with sedulous care
Repairs her wicker eyrie, tempest-torn.