Ode
to Winter
Thomas
Campbell
When first
the fiery-mantled sun
His
heavenly race begun 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,
Rushed into her sire's embrace:-
Her
blue-haired sire, who bade her keep
For ever nearest to his smile,
On
Calpe's olive-shaded steep,
On India's citron-covered isles:
More
remote and buxom-brown,
The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne,
A
rich pomegranate gemmed her gown,
A ripe sheaf bound her zone.
But
howling Winter fled afar,
To
hills that prop the polar star,
And
lives on deer-borne car to ride
With
barren darkness at 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,
Deflowering
Nature's grassy robe,
And trampling on her faded form:-
Till
light's returning lord assume
The shaft the drives him to his polar field,
Of
power to pierce his raven plume
And crystal-covered shield.
Oh,
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 ruined year;
Nor
chill the wanders 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;
When
wrecks and beacons strew the steep,
And
specters 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!
Even unhallowed breath
May spare the victim fallen low;
But
man will ask no truce of death,-
No bounds to human woe.
