The Spirit of the Nation/Winter


"Most musical, most melancholy."

The lovely rose, the garden's graceful queen;
The shining berries of the mountain ash,
And all the glories of the sylvan scene,
Have gone, I guess, teetotally to smash!

The shuddering hills, enwrapt in lurid fire,
With flaming tongues the lambent lightning licks;
Whilst all the songsters of the rural choir
To New South Wales have cut their precious sticks.

From sable clouds that veil the dreary skies,
The rushing demons of the tempest shout;
And Ruin grim to reeking Havoc cries—
"Does your mamma, my tulip, know you're out?"

From pole to pole the rumbling thunder runs,
Tearing, with horrid voice, the tortur'd sky;
And, hark! red Havoc's awful answer comes,
Rending the rock, "Old spitfire, axe my eye."

Aloft, among the rent and flutt'ring shrouds,
While his barque battles with strong ocean's might,
The sailor, gazing on the sable clouds,
Prays to the raging Bereas—"Blow me tight!"

Now the ship, madden'd with th' unequal strife,
Stagg'ringly, plunges heavily about;
The crew, resigning ev'ry hope of life,
Cry, "One wave more, and we'll be up the spout!"

Alas! behold the angry winter blast
Strikes the tall monarch of the forest fiat;
Thus youth's aspiring hopes to earth are cast,
And poets' dreams are—all around my hat!