ODE TO WINTER. WHEN first the fiery-mantled sun 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 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, Whirls to death the roaring whale, Round the hall where Runic Odin And trampling on her faded form : Till light's returning lord assume The shaft that drives him to his polar field, Of power to pierce his raven plume And crystal-cover'd shield. Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear Fast descending as thou art, Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart? Of innocence descend. But chiefly spare, O king of clouds! The sailor on his airy shrouds; When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, And spectres walk along the deep. Milder yet thy snowy breezes Pour on yonder tented shores, 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. LINES. SPOKEN BY MRS. BARTLEY AT DRURY-LANE THEA TRE, ON THE FIRST OPENING OF THE HOUSE BRITONS! although our task is but to show For her, the royal flower, low laid in dust, That was your fairest hope, your fondest trust. Unconscious of the doom, we dreamt, alas! That ev'n these walls, ere many months should pass, Which but return sad accents for her now, Perhaps had witness'd her benignant brow, Cheer'd by the voice you would have raised on high, In bursts of British love and loyalty. But, Britain! now thy chief, thy people mourn, Daughter of England! for a nation sighs, And loftiest principles of England's breast! To paint-ye feel it, Britons, in your hearts! |