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Germany, December, 1800
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 the green apparel dancing, | 5 |
| The young Spring smiled with angel-grace; | |
| Rosy Summer next advancing, | |
| Rush’d unto her sire’s embrace— | |
| Her bright-hair’d sire who bade her keep | |
| For ever nearest to his smiles, | 10 |
| On Calpe’s olive-shaded steep | |
| Or 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, | 15 |
| 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, | 20 |
| 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 where adown the ravaged globe | 25 |
| 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 that drives him to his polar field, | 30 |
| Of power to pierce his raven plume | |
| And crystal-cover’d shield. | |
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| Oh, sire of storms! whose savage ear | |
| The Lapland drum delights to hear, | |
| When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye | 35 |
| Implores thy dreadful deity— | |
| Archangel! power of desolation! | |
| Fast descending as thou art, | |
| Say, hath mortal invocation | |
| Spells to touch thy stony heart? | 40 |
| Then, sullen Winter! hear my prayer, | |
| And gently rule the ruin’d year; | |
| Nor chill the wanderer’s bosom bare | |
| Nor freeze the wretch’s falling tear: | |
| To shuddering Want’s unmantled bed | 45 |
| Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, | |
| And gently on the orphan head | |
| Of innocence descend. | |
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| But chiefly spare, O King of clouds! | |
| The sailor on his airy shrouds, | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| 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? | 60 |
| 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. | |
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