100
STANZAS.
TO THE WINDS.
FIRST PRINTED IN "The Young Philosopher."
Ye vagrant Winds! You clouds that bear
Thro' the blue desart of the air,
Soft sailing in the Summer sky,
Do e’er your wandering breezes meet,
A wretch in misery so complete,
So lost as I?
And yet, where’er your pinions wave
O'er some lost friend's—some lover's grave,
Surviving sufferers still complain;
Some parent of his hopes deprived,
Some wretch who has himself survived,
Lament in vain.
