Classic Poem

XIX

And see the Seas becalm'd behind,
Not crispt with any breeze of Wind;
The Tempest has forsook the Waves,
And on the Land begins his braves.

XX

Hark, hark, their Voices higher rise,
And tear the Welkin with their Cries;
The very Rocks their fury feel,
And like Sick Drunkards nod, and reel.

XXI

Louder, and louder, still they come,
Niles Cataracts to these are dumb;
The Cyclops to these Blades are still,
Whose Anvils shake the burning Hill.

XXII

Were all the Star-enlightned Skies,
As full of Ears as sparkling Eyes;
This rattle in the Christal Ball,
Would be enough to deaf them all.

XXIII

What monstrous Race is hither tost,
Thus to Alarm our British Coast;
With Outcries, such as never yet
War, or Confusion could beget.

XXIV

Oh! now I know them! Let us home,
Our Mortal Enemy is come,
Winter and all his blust'ring train,
Have made a voyage o're the Main.

XXV

Banisht the Country of the Sun,
The Fugitive is hither run,
To ravish from our fruitful Fields
All that the teeming Season yields.

XXVI

Like an Invader, not a Guest,
He comes to Riot, not to Feast;
And in wild fury overthrows,
Whatever does his march oppose.

XXVII

With bleak and with congealing Winds,
The Earth in shining Chains he binds;
And still as he doth farther pass,
Quarries his way with Liquid Glass.