Classic Poem

Cooling Zephyrs! haste away,
O'er my fever'd temples play,
Groves and Grots, in Pity, leave,
All around me gently breathe!
I beck none from Italia's vales,
Nor from midst Gallia's sunny gales!
But, speed from Greenland's icy plains
Where silver Winter constant reigns,
Or, higher, from the Arctic fly,
Through the chill Norwegian sky,
And o'er the Northern Ocean sweep,
As frost-deck'd Naïads glide the deep.
But on high Grampia's fleecy top,
Where kids the gelid herbage crop,
There, Zephyrs, touch! With freshen'd wing
Strait from its chilly caverns spring.
Oh! linger not midst England's fields,
Nor taste the sweets its Garden yields.
In passing, ripple with your wings
The gurgling founts, and glassy springs,
Where thirsty meads the streamlets rave,
And croud their Flowers to drink the wave—
Ah! Breeze I hear thy vagrant wing
Where yonder Black-bird joys to sing,
Thy whispering voice again I know,
There where the willows drooping grow!
Oh! flit the meadow's jewel'd ground,
With racy Freshness me surround!