The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson including many pieces never before published. In Three Volumes |
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ODE TO WINTER. |
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 | The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson |  |
197
ODE TO WINTER.
Hail! Tyrant of the gloomy season, hail!
I greet thine hoary brow and visage pale:
I greet thy grey and solemn eye,
Thy bosom deathly cold,
Thy breath, that breathes to petrify,
Thy snowy crest, which thick'ning clouds enfold!
I greet thine hoary brow and visage pale:
I greet thy grey and solemn eye,
Thy bosom deathly cold,
Thy breath, that breathes to petrify,
Thy snowy crest, which thick'ning clouds enfold!
Parent of Desolation! numbing pow'r!
Nature first heard thee in the stormy hour;
And, on the bleak hill's shaggy side,
Beheld thee on the howling whirlwind ride:
While, with'ring in the wild blast keen,
Her beauteous progeny were seen,
Woods, meadows, flow'rets gay, and velvet hillocks green.
Nature first heard thee in the stormy hour;
And, on the bleak hill's shaggy side,
Beheld thee on the howling whirlwind ride:
While, with'ring in the wild blast keen,
Her beauteous progeny were seen,
Woods, meadows, flow'rets gay, and velvet hillocks green.
198
She heard thy voice, both loud and deep,
The loftiest mountains sweep,
Echoing their cavern'd haunts among,
With cadence fiercely strong.
She mark'd thy sable robe, wide spread
Upon the tall cliff's barren head:
Blank solitudes of dazzling snow
Display thy drear domain;
And, in the peopled hamlets of the plain,
Intolerable Despot! shiv'ring Woe
And pale-ey'd Famine mark'd thy pow'r,
Lord of the freezing hour!
The loftiest mountains sweep,
Echoing their cavern'd haunts among,
With cadence fiercely strong.
She mark'd thy sable robe, wide spread
Upon the tall cliff's barren head:
Blank solitudes of dazzling snow
Display thy drear domain;
And, in the peopled hamlets of the plain,
Intolerable Despot! shiv'ring Woe
And pale-ey'd Famine mark'd thy pow'r,
Lord of the freezing hour!
Rivers, whose clamour spread around,
'Mid Summer's glow, a pleasing sound;
Moaning, or rippling slow along,
Embroider'd banks among—
Woods, that, nodding o'er the steep,
The misty summits crown,
And, while the ev'ning breezes sleep,
Wave to the setting Sun their branches brown—
'Mid Summer's glow, a pleasing sound;
Moaning, or rippling slow along,
Embroider'd banks among—
Woods, that, nodding o'er the steep,
The misty summits crown,
And, while the ev'ning breezes sleep,
Wave to the setting Sun their branches brown—
The shallow brooks, that, when soft May
Shew'd her flush'd bosom, flow'd so fast,
Now mute in icy fetters stay,
And motionless endure the blast—
All, to thy fierce and desolating sway,
Yield, scowling Despot of the short-liv'd day!
Shew'd her flush'd bosom, flow'd so fast,
Now mute in icy fetters stay,
And motionless endure the blast—
All, to thy fierce and desolating sway,
Yield, scowling Despot of the short-liv'd day!
199
Within the cottage, low and mean,
Pale Poverty's chill'd group is seen;
Tho' not far off, across the plain,
The senseless and luxurious train
Of Pomp and Folly revel, gay,
The festive hours away!
The plenteous board, the blazing fire,
The jest and vacant smile;
The cheering cup, the warm attire,
The freezing nights beguile.
Unheard by pleasure's train, the North wind blows,
They sink on beds of down, to sweet and long repose.
Pale Poverty's chill'd group is seen;
Tho' not far off, across the plain,
The senseless and luxurious train
Of Pomp and Folly revel, gay,
The festive hours away!
The plenteous board, the blazing fire,
The jest and vacant smile;
The cheering cup, the warm attire,
The freezing nights beguile.
Unheard by pleasure's train, the North wind blows,
They sink on beds of down, to sweet and long repose.
O petrifying Pow'r!
They little heed the darkest hour;
For, while with Fortune's favours blest,
With days of luxury and nights of rest,
Pride scarce remembers Mis'ry's shrinking Kind,
Who freeze beneath the cutting wind;
Who on the snowy desert stray,
Or plough the wild and wat'ry way;
Who, doom'd no dawning hour of Hope to see,
Linger thro' length'ning days, or, Tyrant, yield to thee!
They little heed the darkest hour;
For, while with Fortune's favours blest,
With days of luxury and nights of rest,
Pride scarce remembers Mis'ry's shrinking Kind,
Who freeze beneath the cutting wind;
Who on the snowy desert stray,
Or plough the wild and wat'ry way;
Who, doom'd no dawning hour of Hope to see,
Linger thro' length'ning days, or, Tyrant, yield to thee!
| The Poetical Works of the late Mrs Mary Robinson | |