The wind which lightly laves my lover's hair, Then skims to kiss the coral Hebrides, Once meekly breathed on cruel Polycrates, Once cooled a luckless lion in his lair. Fresh showers washed the Spanish monarch's march, And blessed the Finnish farmer's ripening grain, Brought flood and death to Yangtze's peopled plain, Bring bolts to blast Seattle's stately larch. The moon that glimmers glory on the dell, And softly smiles on lassies' satin cheek, Has gleamed on ghastly things one cannot speak, Has lighted wretched men to caves of Hell. And tides that dash good nomads to their doom Have wafted sinful seamen, smiling, home. |