Ode to Winter

When first the fiery-mantled sunHis heavenly race begun to run;Round the earth and ocean blue,His children four the Seasons flew.First, in green apparel dancing,5The young Spring smiled with angel grace;Rosy summer next advancing,Rushed into her sire's embrace:-Her blue-haired sire, who bade her keepFor ever nearest to his smile,10On Calpe's olive-shaded steep,On India's citron-covered isles:More remote and buxom-brown,The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne,A rich pomegranate gemmed her gown,15A ripe sheaf bound her zone.But howling Winter fled afar,To hills that prop the polar star,And lives on deer-borne car to rideWith barren darkness at his side,20Round the shore where loud LofodenWhirls to death the roaring whale,Round the hall where runic OdinHowls his war-song to the gale;Save when adown the ravaged globe25He travels on his native storm,Deflowering Nature's grassy robe,And trampling on her faded form:-Till light's returning lord assumeThe shaft the drives him to his polar field,30Of power to pierce his raven plumeAnd crystal-covered shield.Oh, sire of storms! whose savage earThe Lapland drum delights to hear,When frenzy with her blood-shot eye35Implores thy dreadful deity,Archangel! power of desolation!Fast descending as thou art,Say, hath mortal invocationSpells to touch thy stony heart?40Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer,And gently rule the ruined year;Nor chill the wanders bosom bare,Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear;-To shuddering Want's unmantled bed45Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead,And gently on the orphan headOf innocence descend.-But chiefly spare, O king of clouds!The sailor on his airy shrouds;50When wrecks and beacons strew the steep,And specters walk along the deep.Milder yet thy snowy breezesPour on yonder tented shores,Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes,55Or the Dark-brown Danube roars.Oh, winds of winter! List ye thereTo many a deep and dying groan;Or start, ye demons of the midnight air,At shrieks and thunders louder than your own.60Alas! Even unhallowed breathMay spare the victim fallen low;But man will ask no truce of death,-No bounds to human woe.