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 northern field, Of power to pierce his raven plume, And crystal-cover'd shield. O sire of storms! whose savage ear (Fast descending as thou art) Say, hath mortal invocation Spells to touch thy stony heart? Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer, Nor chill the wand'rer's bosom bare, Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear: To shivering want's unmantled bed Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, And mildly on the orphan head 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;* N Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, Or the dark brown Danube roars. O 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. * This Ode was written in Germany at the close of the year 1800, before the conclusion of hostilities. THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION. ОH! leave this barren spot to me— Η Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree. Yet leave this little spot to me— Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree. Thrice twenty summers I have stood In bloomless, fruitless, solitude Since childhood in my rustling bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour— Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture paid; And on my trunk's surviving frame Carv'd many a long-forgotten name: |