What viewless forms th' Æolian organ play,

And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious thought away!

Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world.

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Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summer smiles,

On Behring's rocks, or Greenland's naked isles;

Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow,

From wastes that slumber in eternal snow;

And waft, across the waves tumultuous roar,

The wolf's long howl from Oonalaska's shore.

Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm,

Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form!

Rocks, waves, and winds, the shatter'd bark delay;

Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away.

But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep,

And sing to charm the spirit of the deep.

Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole,

Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul :

His native hills that rise in happier climes,

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The grot that heard his song of other times,

His cottage-home, his bark of slender sail,

His glassy lake, and broomwood-blossom'd vale,

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Rush on his thought; he sweeps before the wind,
Treads the lov'd shore he sigh'd to leave behind;

Meets at each step a friend's familiar face,

And flies at last to Helen's long embrace;
Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear,
And clasps, with many a sigh, his children dear!
While, long neglected, but at length caress'd,

His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest,

Points to the master's eyes (where'er they roam)

His wistful face, and whines a welcome home.

Friend of the brave! in peril's darkest hour,

Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for

power;

To thee the heart its trembling homage yields,

On stormy floods, and carnage-cover'd fields.

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When front to front the banner'd hosts combine,

Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line;
When all is still on Death's devoted soil,

The march-worn soldier mingles for the toil;
As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high
The dauntless brow, and spirit-speaking eye,
Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come,

And hears thy stormy music in the drum.

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And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore

The hardy Byron to his native shore.— 1

In horrid climes, where Chiloe's tempests sweep
Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep,

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'Twas his to mourn misfortune's rudest shock, Scourg'd by the winds, and cradled on the rock,

To wake each joyless morn, and search again
The famish'd haunts of solitary men,

Whose race, unyielding as their native storm,

Knows not a trace of Nature but the form;

Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued,

Pale, but intrepid, sad, but unsubdued,

Pierc'd the deep woods, and, hailing from afar
The moon's pale planet and the northern star ;
Paus'd at each dreary cry, unheard before,

Hyænas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore;

Till, led by thee o'er many a cliff sublime,

He found a warmer world, a milder clime,

A home to rest, a shelter to defend,

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Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend! *

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