ODE TO WINTER.

WHEN first the fiery-mantled sun

His heavenly race began to run;

Round the earth and ocean blue,

His children four the Seasons flew.

First, in green apparel dancing,

The young Spring smiled with angel grace;

Rosy Summer next advancing,

Rush'd into her sire's embrace :

Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep

For ever nearest to his smiles,

On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,

On India's citron-cover'd isles:

More remote and buxom-brown,

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne;

A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown,

A ripe sheaf bound her zone.

But howling Winter fled afar,

To hills that prop the polar star,
And loves on deer-borne car to ride,
With barren darkness by his side.

Round the shore where loud Lofoden

Whirls to death the roaring whale, Round the hall where Runic Odin

Howls his war-song to the gale; Save when adown the ravaged globe He travels on his native storm,

Deflow'ring Nature's grassy robe,

And trampling on her faded form :

Till light's returning lord assume

The shaft that drives him to his polar field,

Of pow'r to pierce his raven plume,

And crystal-cover'd shield.

O, sire of storms! whose savage ear
The Lapland drum delights to hear,
When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye
Implores thy dreadful deity,
Archangel! power of desolation!

Fast descending as thou art,

Say, hath mortal invocation

Spells to touch thy stony heart?

Then sullen Winter hear my prayer,
And gently rule the ruin'd year;

Nor chill the wand'rer's bosom bare,

Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear;

To shuddering want's unmantled bed,

Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead,

And gently on the orphan head

Of innocence descend.

But chiefly spare, O king of clouds !

The sailor on his airy shrouds ;

VOL. II.

I

When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,

And spectres walk along the deep.

Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Pour on yonder tented shores,

Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,
Or the dark-brown Danube roars.

Oh winds of Winter! list ye there

To many a deep and dying groan ;

Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own.

Alas! ev'n your unhallow'd breath

May spare the victim fallen low;

But man will ask no truce to death,—

No bounds to human woe.a

a This ode was written in Germany, at the close of 1800,

before the conclusion of hostilities.

BRITONS! although our task is but to show

The scenes and passions of fictitious woe,
Think not we come this night without a part
In that deep sorrow of the public heart,
Which like a shade hath darken'd ev'ry place,
And moisten'd with a tear the manliest face!
The bell is scarcely hush'd in Windsor's piles,
That toll'd a requiem from the solemn aisles,