V

Thro' dreaming towns I go,

The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,

      The streets are dumb with snow.

The tempest crackles on the leads,

      And, ringing, spins from brand and mail;

But o'er the dark a glory spreads,

      And gilds the driving hail.

I leave the plain, I climb the height:

      No branchy thicket shelter yields;

But blessed forms in whistling storms

      Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.