Page:Poems By Chauncy Hare Townshend.djvu/70

 ODE O THE Tho' thy rude hand rend merciless Nature's every golden tress, Bidding her last, pale bloom depart; Stern and boisterous as thou art,- Thou canst give, December drear, Many an hour of social cheer; Or raise the visionary mind To thoughts, and raptures more refin'd. In midnight solitude, 'tis sweet To hear the heavy rain-drops beat; The water-pipe's continual/low, The splashing of the pool below; And the low gales, that feebly/loat, Like distant owlet's hollow note. Sooth'd by the blended sounds, the soul Confesses Fancy's fond controul: The forths of other days/leer by, Or visions of futurity. Ev'n now, while o'er the whitening waste Thy falling snows their fleeces cast; And leafless grove, and mountain dim, Confus'd in dubious darkness swim; (While the far-contrasted main Blackens beneath thy surly reica ) ......... Google

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