Hail to thy rolling clouds, and rapid ftorms!
Tho' they deform fair Nature's lovely face:
Hail to thy winds, that sweep along the earth!
Tho' trees they root up from their folid base.
How ficklied over is the face of things!
Where is the fpice kifs of the fouthern gale! Where the wild rose, that smil'd upon the thorn, The mountain flower, and lily of the vale!
How gloomy 'tis to caft the eye around,
And view the trees difrob'd of every leaf,
The velvet path grown rough with clotting fhowers,
And every field depriv'd of every sheaf!
How far more gloomy o'er the rain-beat heath
Alone to travel in the dead of night!
No twinkling ftar to gild the arch of heaven,
No moon to lend her temporary light:
To fee the lightning fpread its ample sheet,
Difcern the wild wafte thro' its liquid fire,
To hear the thunder rend the troubled air,
As time itself and nature would expire:
And yet, O Winter! has thy poet feen
Thy face as fmooth, and placid as the Spring, Has felt, with comfort felt, the beam of heaven, And heard thy vallies and thy woodlands ring.
What time the fun with burnish'd locks arose,
The long loft charms of nature to renew,
When purls of ice bedeck'd the graffy turf,
And tree-tops floated in the filver dew.
Father of heaven and earth! this change is thine:
By thee the Seasons in gradation roll,
Thou great omnifcient Ruler of the world!
Thou Alpha and Omega of the whole!
Here humbly bow we down our heads to thee!
"Tis ours the voice of gratitude to raise,
Thine to diffufe thy bleflings o'er the land;
Thine to receive the incenfe of our praise.
Pure if it rifes from the confcious heart,
With thee for ever does the fymbol live;
Tho' fmall for all thy love is man's return,
Thou afk'st no more than he has power to give.
An EPISTLE OF M. DE VOLTAIRE,
UPON HIS ARRIVAL AT HIS ESTATE NEAR
THE LAKE OF GENEVA, IN MARCH
O
Take, o keep me, ever bleft domains,
Where lovely Flora with Pomona reigns ;
Where Art fulfils what Nature's voice requires,
And gives the charms to which my verse aspires ;
Take me, the world with transport I resign,
And let your peaceful solitude be mine!
Yet not in these retreats I boast to find
That perfect bliss that leaves no wish behind;
This, to no lonely shade kind Nature brings,
Nor Art bestows on courtiers, or on kings;
Not ev'n the Sage this boon has e'er pokess’d,
Tho'join’d with wisdom, virtue far d his breast;
This transient life, alas! can ne'er fuffice
To reach the distant goal, and snatch the prize;
Yet, footh'd to rest, we feel fufpence from woe,
And tho' not perfect joy, yet joy we know.
Enchanting scenes! what pleasure you dispense,
Where'er I turn, to every wondering fenie!
An* ocean here, where no rude tempest roars,
With crystal waters laves the hallow'd shores;
Here flowery fields with rising hills are crown'd,
Where clustering vines empurple all the ground:
Now by degrees from hills to Alps they rife,
Hell groans beneath, above they pierce the fkies!
See the proud fummit, white with endless froft,
Eternal bulwark of the blissful coaft!
The blissful coaft the hardy Lombards gain,
And froft and mountains crofs their course in vain ;
Here glory beckon'd mighty chiefs of old,
And planted laurels to reward the bold;
Charles, Otho, Conti heard her trumpet found,
And, borne on victory's wings, they fpurn'd the mound.
See, on those banks where yon calm waters fwell,
The hair-clad epicure's luxurious cell!
See fam'd Ripaille, where once fo grave, fo gay,
Great Amedeus † pafs'd from prayer to play :
Fantastic wretch! thou riddle of thy kind!
What ftrange ambition feiz'd thy frantic mind?
Prince, hermit, lover! bleft thro' every hour
With blissful change of pleasure and of power,
Couldft thou, thus paradis'd, from care remote,
Rush to the world, and fight for Peter's boat?
† Amedeus the Pacific, firft duke of Savoy, in 1434 retired to the priory of Ripaille, where he affected to live like an hermit, and fuffered his beard to grow to an enormous length; but he kept a mistress in his cell; and in other refpects lived in great luxury; yet he joined with a faction against Pope Eugenius IV: and being elected to the fee of Rome, he was crowned Pope by the name of Felix V. but afterwards refigned at the request of Charles VII. king of France.
Now by the Gods of sweet repose I swear,
I would not thus have barter'd ease for care,
Spight of the keys that move our fear and hopes
I ne'er would quit such penance to be Pope.
Let him who Rome's stern tyrant stoop'd to praise,
The tuneful chanter of sweet georgic lays,
Let Maro boast of streams that Nature pours
To lave proud villas on Italia's fhores;
Superior far the streams that court my song,
Superior far the shores. they wind along:
Bleft shores! the dwelling of that sacred power
Who rules each joyful, and each glorious hour,
Queen of whate'er the good or great desire,
The patriot’s eloquence, the hero's fire,
Shrin'd in each breali, and near the tyrant's sword
Invok'd in whispers, and in fighs ador'd,
Immortal Liberty, whose generous mind
With all her gifts would bless all human-kind !
See, from Morat * she comes in martial charms,
And shines like Pallas in celestial arms,
Her sword the blood of boastful Austria itains,
And Charles, who threaten'd with opprobrious chains.
Now hostile crowds Geneva's towers assail,
They march in secret, and by night they scale;
* Morat is a little town in the canton of Fribourgh in Switzerland, famous for a battle which the Switzers gained against Charles the Rath, duke of Burgundy, by which they recovered and established their liberty. Charles himself was wounded, and left 18,000 Austrians dead on the spot.
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