January

By Rebecca Hey

Keen blows the bitter spirit of the North,
And, like a warrior foil’d, with powerless beam
The sun eyes wistfully the frost-bound stream,
As if he long’d, though vainly, to call forth
His by-gone strength, that he might deck the earth
In all her summer beauty, and set free
River and brooklet, till, towards the sea
Onward they bounded with melodious mirth.
But many a storm, ere that may be, shall blow,
And many a cloud frown darkling o’er the sky;
And be it so, if but affection’s glow
Play round the lips, and brighten in the eye,
When round the hearth long-sever’d friends do meet,
(So ancient usage claims,) the opening to greet.