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In hooded mantle, limping o'er the plain,

As though his weakness were disturbed by pain: Or, if a juster fancy should allow

An undisputed symbol of command,

The chosen sceptre is a withered bough,
Infirmly grasped within a palsied hand.
These emblems suit the helpless and forlorn;
But mighty Winter the device shall scorn.

For he it was, dread Winter! who beset,
Flinging round van and rear his ghastly net,
That host, when from the regions of the Pole
They shrunk, insane ambition's barren goal,
That host, as huge and strong as e'er defied
Their God, and placed their trust in human pride!
As fathers persecute rebellious sons,

He smote the blossoms of their warrior youth ;
He called on Frost's inexorable tooth

Life to consume in Manhood's firmest hold;
Nor spared the reverend blood that feebly runs;
For why, unless for liberty enrolled

And sacred home, ah! why should hoary Age be bold?

Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed,

But fleeter far the pinions of the Wind,

Which from Siberian caves the Monarch freed, And sent him forth, with squadrons of his kind, And bade the Snow their ample backs bestride, And to the battle ride.

No pitying voice commands a halt,

No courage can repel the dire assault;

Distracted, spiritless, benumbed, and blind,

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and descry,

Burial and death: look for them,

When morn returns, beneath the clear, blue sky, A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy!



YE Storms, resound the praises of your King!
And ye, mild Seasons, - in a sunny clime,
Midway on some high hill, while Father Time
Looks on delighted, meet in festal ring,

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And loud and long of Winter's triumph sing! Sing ye, with blossoms crowned, and fruit, and flowers,

Of Winter's breath surcharged with sleety showers, And the dire flapping of his hoary wing!

Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass; With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report your gain; Whisper it to the billows of the main,

And to the aërial zephyrs as they pass,

That old decrepit Winter, He hath slain

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That Host, which rendered all your bounties vain!


By Moscow self-devoted to a blaze
Of dreadful sacrifice; by Russian blood
Lavished in fight with desperate hardihood;
The unfeeling Elements no claim shall raise
To rob our Human-nature of just praise
For what she did and suffered. Pledges sure
Of a deliverance absolute and pure

if Faith might tread the beaten ways
Of Providence. But now did the Most High
Exalt his still, small voice, to quell that Host
Gathered his power, a manifest ally;

He, whose heaped waves confounded the proud boast
Of Pharaoh, said to Famine, Snow, and Frost,
"Finish the strife by deadliest victory!"


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ABRUPTLY paused the strife;-the field throughout,
Resting upon his arms, each warrior stood,
Checked in the very act and deed of blood,
With breath suspended, like a listening scout.
O Silence! thou wert mother of a shout
That through the texture of yon azure dome
Cleaves its glad way, a cry of harvest-home
Uttered to Heaven in ecstasy devout!

The barrier Rhine hath flashed, through battle


On men who gaze heart-smitten by the view,
As if all Germany had felt the shock!

- Fly, wretched Gauls! ere they the charge renew Who have seen themselves now casting off the


The unconquerable Stream his course pursue.



Now that all hearts are glad, all faces bright,
Our aged Sovereign sits, to the ebb and flow
Of states and kingdoms, to their joy or woe,
Insensible. He sits deprived of sight,
And lamentably wrapped in twofold night,
Whom no weak hopes deceived; whose mind ensued,
Through perilous war, with regal fortitude,
Peace that should claim respect from lawless Might.
Dread King of kings, vouchsafe a ray divine
To his forlorn condition! let thy grace

Upon his inner soul in mercy shine;
Permit his heart to kindle, and to embrace
(Though it were only for a moment's space)
The triumphs of this hour; for they are THINE!*

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WHEN the soft hand of sleep had closed the latch
On the tired household of corporeal sense,
And Fancy, keeping unreluctant watch,
Was free her choicest favors to dispense;
I saw, in wondrous pérspective displayed,
A landscape more august than happiest skill
Of pencil ever clothed with light and shade;
An intermingled pomp of vale and hill,
City, and naval stream, suburban grove,
And stately forest where the wild deer rove;
Nor wanted lurking hamlet, dusky towns,
And scattered rural farms of aspect bright;
And, here and there, between the pastoral downs,
The azure sea upswelled upon the sight.
Fair prospect, such as Britain only shows!
But not a living creature could be seen

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