Of the great ball of fire that glares above,

Glow dry like iron heated in a stove;

Turning upon themselves, the tortured sheep,

With blackening tongues, drop heap on gasping heap,

Their rotting flesh sickens the wind that moans

And whistles poisoned through their chattering bones;

While the thin shepherd, staring sick and gaunt,

Will search the thorns for berries, or yet haunt

[21]

The stony channels of some river-bed

Where filtering fresh perchance a liquid thread

Of water may run clear.—Now dark o'erhead,

Thickening with storm, the wintry clouds will loom,

And wrap the land in weeds of mournful gloom;

Shrouding the sun and every lesser light

Till earth with all her aging woods grows white,

And hurrying streams stop fettered in their flight.

Then famished beasts freeze by the frozen lakes,

And thick as leaves dead birds bestrew the brakes;

And, cowering blankly by the flickering flame,

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