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
.