ON L APLAND 's icy breast, the Shepherd strives,
In vain, tOnurse his little fold;
Piteous, they render up their lives,
By famine prest, and bleak eternal cold.

Yet, smiles he, at the savage storm,
Marks the wild waves, the deep deform;
And, shrinking, slumbers in his tott'ring nest,
While, blasts of deadly rigor, lull his limbs, to rest.

He starts not, as I do, on beds of down;
He feels not slighted love, and scorpion care;
He calls, the scanty store, he has, his own;
And, nightly, mocking, the keen-biting air,
Hies to his freezing nook, and finds CONTENTMENT there.