The Bird Santuary

Fierce from Hyperborean caves,
Loud, and wild, lo! Winter raves,
Affrighted, as she wings her way,
Rolls the agitated sea;
And rushing on resisting shores,
The desolating tempest roars;
Widen'd by her boisterous breath,
Gape the briny jaws of Death,
That pour, while many a victim dies,
Heart-rending shrieks and dying cries.

Yes, rifler of the fruitful year,
With all thy horrors thou art here;
Say, wilt thou, while thy wrath is hurl'd,
And either hand at random throws,
Insulting o'er a suffering world,
Thy frigid fetters and thy snows:
While floating in thy flaky air,
Wilt thou hear the wanderer's pray'r?

Ah! no, thy feelings all are froze,
In vain the trackless waste he knows,
In vain implores inclement skies,
Fair Hope deserts the sullen gloom,
Despair, dread rolls her maniac eyes,
And drags him to his doom.

Thou too, as many a tale can tell,
Hast heedless heard the sorrowing yell,
Hast seen the constant dog attend,
In death itself, his long-lov'd friend;
Fix'd to his side his faithful guardian lie,
And to that faith, with martyr firmness die!

While o'er Hiraethog, Berwyn, vast,
Thy all-involving clouds are cast,
O! let the rage that marks thy reign,
Pass o'er the huts of Want and Pain;
From scenes of aggravated woe,
Turn thy frightful face, and go;
Go where Grandeur's columns rise,
And Art illumes her stucco'd skies;
Go where riot's train resorts,
And selfish Pride unfeeling sports,
Where Mirth's gay-group thy frowns defy,
And Folly waves her feathers high;
And ere her race nocturnal's run,
Lights the Morn's intruding sun.

Yet annual scourge, even thou hast charms,
For while thy sterile will prevails,
Contagion shuns thy gelid gales,
And health comes swinging both her arms;
And vegetation slowly creeps,
To thy maternal lap and sleeps;
But rests to ope her dewy eyes,
And shew her tints to milder skies.

If rough Deformity was fled,
Beauty, in vain, might rear her head;
Without thee, every season's foil,
(Sapping Autumn's mealy spoil)
The flowers that deck the brows of spring,
Or shed their sweets from Summer's wing,
The leafy grove, the choral strain,
The unvaried year, would laugh in vain.

Stern, though thy petrifying face
Unform'd in Stanhope's school of Grace;
Thy figure tall, disgusting, thin,
Thy mind, without a wish to win;

Yet cold and chilling as thou art,
Thou know'st to warm the social heart;
Thou know'st that some e'en thee beguile,
Bid e'en thy features boast a smile;
These are the good, and they alone
Can sooth thee on thy icy throne.

Yes, breasts benign, to Pity known,
To you the godlike boon is given,
To soften sorrows, not your own,
And antedate, e'en here, your heaven;
This is Virtue's hallow'd glee,
This is PUSEY—copying thee!

Fierce from Hyperborean caves,
Loud, and wild, lo! Winter raves,
Affrighted, as she wings her way,
Rolls the agitated sea;
And rushing on resisting shores,
The desolating tempest roars;
Widen'd by her boisterous breath,
Gape the briny jaws of Death,
That pour, while many a victim dies,
Heart-rending shrieks and dying cries.

Yes, rifler of the fruitful year,
With all thy horrors thou art here;
Say, wilt thou, while thy wrath is hurl'd,
And either hand at random throws,
Insulting o'er a suffering world,
Thy frigid fetters and thy snows:
While floating in thy flaky air,
Wilt thou hear the wanderer's pray'r?

Ah! no, thy feelings all are froze,
In vain the trackless waste he knows,
In vain implores inclement skies,
Fair Hope deserts the sullen gloom,
Despair, dread rolls her maniac eyes,
And drags him to his doom.

Thou too, as many a tale can tell,
Hast heedless heard the sorrowing yell,
Hast seen the constant dog attend,
In death itself, his long-lov'd friend;
Fix'd to his side his faithful guardian lie,
And to that faith, with martyr firmness die!

While o'er Hiraethog, Berwyn, vast,
Thy all-involving clouds are cast,
O! let the rage that marks thy reign,
Pass o'er the huts of Want and Pain;
From scenes of aggravated woe,
Turn thy frightful face, and go;
Go where Grandeur's columns rise,
And Art illumes her stucco'd skies;
Go where riot's train resorts,
And selfish Pride unfeeling sports,
Where Mirth's gay-group thy frowns defy,
And Folly waves her feathers high;
And ere her race nocturnal's run,
Lights the Morn's intruding sun.

Yet annual scourge, even thou hast charms,
For while thy sterile will prevails,
Contagion shuns thy gelid gales,
And health comes swinging both her arms;
And vegetation slowly creeps,
To thy maternal lap and sleeps;
But rests to ope her dewy eyes,
And shew her tints to milder skies.

If rough Deformity was fled,
Beauty, in vain, might rear her head;
Without thee, every season's foil,
(Sapping Autumn's mealy spoil)
The flowers that deck the brows of spring,
Or shed their sweets from Summer's wing,
The leafy grove, the choral strain,
The unvaried year, would laugh in vain.

Stern, though thy petrifying face
Unform'd in Stanhope's school of Grace;
Thy figure tall, disgusting, thin,
Thy mind, without a wish to win;

Yet cold and chilling as thou art,
Thou know'st to warm the social heart;
Thou know'st that some e'en thee beguile,
Bid e'en thy features boast a smile;
These are the good, and they alone
Can sooth thee on thy icy throne.

Yes, breasts benign, to Pity known,
To you the godlike boon is given,
To soften sorrows, not your own,
And antedate, e'en here, your heaven;
This is Virtue's hallow'd glee,
This is PUSEY—copying thee!
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