WITH DRAWINGS.
45
And pour out all their little ſouls in ſong.
When winter bites upon the naked plain,
Nor food nor ſhelter in the groves remain;
By inſtinct led, a firm united band,
As marſhal'd by ſome ſkilful general's hand,
The congregated nations wing their way
In duſky columns o'er the trackleſs ſea;
In clouds unnumber'd annual hover o'er
The craggy Baſs, or Kilda's utmoſt ſhore:
Thence ſpread their ſails to meet the ſouthern wind,
And leave the gathering tempeſt far behind;
Purſue the circling ſun's indulgent ray,
Courſe the ſwift ſeaſons, and o'ertake the day.
Not ſo the inſect race, ordain'd to keep
The lazy ſabbath of a half-year's ſleep.
Entomb'd, beneath the filmy web they lie,
And wait the influence of a kinder ſky.
When
