I.

When thro' the clear, and sparkling air, Fleet the pointed darts of frost, The filmy nets, now here, now there, For thievish birds, are lightly toss'd; Or, plac'd with silent heed, the wily snares, To lure the stranger-cranes, and timid hares. Rich viands they, whose pleasing flavor Crown his board, reward his labor. In those convivial hours the Heart forgets Its vain tumultuous hopes, and all its fond regrets.