Ambrose Philips

Epistle to the Earl of Dorset [“Winter Piece”]

Copenhagen, March 9, 1709.

FROM frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow, 
From streams which northern winds forbid to flow, 
What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring, 
Or how, so near the Pole, attempt to sing? 
The hoary winter here conceals from sight 
All pleasing objects which to verse invite. 
The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, 
The flow’ry plains, and silver-streaming floods, 
By snow disguis’d, in bright confusion lie, 
And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye. 
	No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring, 
No birds within the desert region sing. 
The ships, unmov’d, the boist’rous winds defy, 
While rattling chariots o’er the ocean fly. 
The vast Leviathan wants room to play, 
And spouts his waters in the face of day. 
The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, 
And to the moon in icy valleys howl. 
O’er many a shining league the level main 
Here spreads itself into a glassy plain: 
There solid billows of enormous size, 
Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise. 
	And yet but lately have I seen, ev’n here, 
The winter in a lovely dress appear. 
E’er yet the clouds let fall the treasur’d snow, 
Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow, 
At ev’ning a keen eastern breeze arose, 
And the descending rain unsully’d froze. 
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, 
The ruddy morn disclos’d at once to view 
The face of nature in a rich disguise, 
And brighten’d ev’ry object to my eyes: 
For ev’ry shrub, and ev’ry blade of grass, 
And ev’ry pointed thorn, seem’d wrought in glass; 
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show, 
While through the ice the crimson berries glow. 
The thick-sprung reeds, which wat’ry marshes yield, 
Seem’d polish’d lances in a hostile field. 
The stag in limpid currents, with surprise, 
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise; 
The spreading oak, the beech, and tow’ring pine, 
Glaz’d over, in the freezing aether shine. 
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun, 
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun. 
	When if a sudden gust of wind arise, 
The brittle forest into atoms flies, 
The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends, 
And in a spangled show’r the prospect ends: 
Or, if a southern gale the region warm, 
And by degrees unbind the wintry charm, 
The traveller a miry country sees, 
And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees: 
	Like some deluded peasant Merlin leads 
Through fragrant bow’rs, and through delicious meads, 
While here enchanted gardens to him rise, 
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,             
His wand’ring feet the magic paths pursue, 
And while he thinks the fair illusion true, 
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air, 
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear, 
A tedious road the weary wretch returns, 
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.