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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
The Lapland drum delights to hear,—
When Frenzy with her bloodshot 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 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.
Though shrub or flowret never grow
My dark unwarming shade below;
Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murm'ring tribes from me derive
Th' ambrosial treasure of the hive:

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:
Oh! by the vows of gentle sound,
First breath'd upon this sacred ground;
By all that love hath whisper'd here,
Or beauty heard with ravish'd ear:

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