TO A CERTAIN AUTHOR, ON HIS WRITING A PROLOGUE, WHEREIN HE DESCRIBES A TRAVELLER FROZEN IN A SNOW STORM.

No more let poets vainly boast
 Their fine descriptive art,
 They ransack Nature's gayest store,
 Yet rarely warm the heart. 

Hail, happy Bard, whose brilliant wit,
 With more than Poet's art,
 Can from a frozen mass extract
 Fire that can melt the heart.