Classic Poem

So in those Climes, fruitful in nought but Cold ,
Where Nature looks with hoary Winters, old ;
High Rocks , dissembling their hid Horrour, smile ,
Top't thus with Snow , which does their Crags beguile.
A like Hand here, the Earths white Bosome spreads,
And dip't in Snow , the Winter gently sheds.
As the resembling Level , seems to vie,
With Clouds , of unborn Flakes , within the Skie ,
While Mountain-tops , and raised Heights , all show,
White , as the native High-Lands , of the Snow .
The Heaven , big, and teeming with white Show'rs ,
Mock't by the Earth , into whose Lap it pow'rs.
But what does most of all this Art surprize,
One Hand , drops Snow so soft , and bardens Ice .