so? NZTS. 301 VII. WRITTEN ON A WINTER'S MORNING. Wnl?s on the sun's b?ight orb distinct is seen (As slow he rises on the watchful view Behind yon hi!l) the dark fir's sable hue, And his long rays, divided, slope between Each aperture amid the dusky screen, While forms, tlmt Frost's fantastic finger drew On the dimm'd pane, dissolve in amber dew,-- I, at my window, ?ste delight serene, And think how many, at this cheerful hour, While in thetown's rank atmosphere they gasp, Lose joys like these, or, queneh'd each mental power, The languid form of dull Oblivion clasp. Oh, when will man accept his heav'nly dower, . . And seize the joys*for ever in his grasp*.