The angel of the island weeps;
Thy widowed virgins weep beneath thy shades.
Thy aged fathers gird themselves for war;
The sucking infant lives, to die in battle;
The weeping mother feeds him for the slaughter.
The husbandman doth leave his bending harvest.
Blood cries afar! The land doth sow itself!
The glittering youth of courts must gleam in arms;
The aged senators their ancient swords assume;
The trembling sinews of old age must work
The work of death against their progeny.
For Tyranny hath stretched his purple arm,
And "Blood!" he cries: "The chariots and the
The noise of shout, and dreadful thunder of the battle heard afar!"
Beware, O proud! thou shalt be humbled;
Thy cruel brow, thine iron heart is smitten,
Though lingering Fate is slow. Oh yet may Albion
Smile again, and stretch her peaceful arms,
And raise her golden head exultingly!
Her citizens shall throng about her gates,
Her mariners shall sing upon the sea,
And myriads shall to her temples crowd!
Her sons shall joy as in the morning—
Her daughters sing as to the rising year!
THOU with dewy locks, who lookest down
Through the clear windows of the
morning, turn
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle,
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring!
The hills tell each other, and the listening
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turned
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth,
And let thy holy feet visit our clime!
Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds
Kiss thy perfumèd garments; let us taste
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee.
Oh deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put
Thy golden crown upon her languished head,
Whose modest tresses were bound up for thee!
THOU who passest through our valleys in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! Thou, O
Oft pitchedst here thy golden tent, and oft Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld With joy thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.
Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
Thy voice, when Noon upon his fervid car
Rode o'er the deep of heaven.
Beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy valleys, on
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream!
Our valleys love the Summer in his pride.
Our bards are famed who strike the silver wire:
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains,
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance.
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.
AUTUMN, laden with fruit, and stained
With the blood of the grape, pass not,
Beneath my shady roof; there thou
mayst rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
"The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clustering Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feathered clouds strew flowers round her head.
"The Spirits of the Air live on the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees."
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat;
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.
WINTER! bar thine adamantine doors: The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark
Deep-founded habitation. Shake not thy roofs,
Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car.
He hears me not, but o'er the yawning deep
Rides heavy; his storms are unchained, sheathed
In ribbed steel; I dare not lift mine eyes;
For he hath reared his sceptre o'er the world.
Lo! now the direful monster, whose skin clings
To his strong bones, strides o'er the groaning rocks:
He withers all in silence, and in his hand
Unclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life.
He takes his seat upon the cliffs,—the mariner Cries in vain. Poor little wretch, that deal'st With storms!-till heaven smiles, and the monster Is driven yelling to his caves beneath Mount Hecla.
HOU fair-haired Angel of the Evening, Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light
Thy bright torch of love-thy radiant
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