LIX.

Thus, on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, For many a long month lost in snow profound, When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland, And in their northern cave the storms hath bound; From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, Torrents are hurled; green hills emerge; and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flowers are crowned; Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.