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William Cowper - Horace, Book I. Ode IX.
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Seest thou yon mountain laden with deep snow,
The groves beneath their fleecy burden bow,
The streams congeal`d, forget to flow,
Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile
Of fuel on the hearth;
Broach the best cask and make old winter smile
With seasonable mirth.

This be our part -- let Heaven dispose the rest;
If Jove command, the winds shall sleep,
That now wage war upon the foamy deep,
And gentle gales spring from the balmy west.

E`en let us shift to-morrow as we may,
When to-morrow`s passed away,
We at least shall have to say,
We have lived another day;
Your auburn locks will soon be silver`d o`er,
Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no more.
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