A WINTER SCENE.

It is a morn in winter, The air is white with snow; And on the chinar branches Jasmins seem to grow. The furrowed fields and hill-tops With icy treasures shine, Like scales of silver fishes, Or jewels in a mine. The bitter wind has banished The silent nightingale, And the rose, like some coy maiden, Is muffled in a veil. Its silver song of summer No more the fountain sings, And frozen are the rivers That fed the bath of kings! No flower-girls in the market, For flowers are out of date; And the keepers of the roses Have shut the garden-gate. No happy guests are drinking, Their goblets crowned with vine, For gone are all the merchants That sold the merry wine! And gone the dancing women, Before the winds and snows; Their summer souls have followed The nightingale and rose!