Now from the dreary regions of the north,
Bleak boreas musters forth his ruffian band,
From the dire magazine of wint'ry storms,
With the artillery of thicken'd hail,
The big-swoll'n tempest, and the chilling frost,
With all the vast vicissitudes of storm,
That blast the pleasures of the circling year,
The clouds in torrents pour their watery charge,
In showers impetuous, on the delug'd earth;
Lo, from the mountain's high impending brow,
With hideous roar, descends the vast cascade,
Low dashing in the deep worn vase below;
Where swiftly round the circling eddy foams,
Then hurries headlong to the neighbouring brook,
The furious river, now too much surcharg'd,
From confluence of auxiliary streams,
Rapidly rolling on, with rage unstaid,
By common mounds prescrib'd, the efforts weak,
Of weaker industry, whose feeble hands,
Heav'n never calculated to oppose
The preternat'ral inundation's sweep;
Human contrivance ineffectual proves;
And the big torrent bursts upon the plain;
Confusion stalks around, and wild dismay
Sits sad on every rustic's pallid face,
Bolden'd by fear, with mad alacrity,
Precipitate they seek to fly, to find
A safe asylum on the neighbouring hills;
Despair succeeds, and shrieks of general woe,
Whilst far and wide, with horrid conflict urg'd,
The tempest spreads with unremitting rage;
Swift, from the verdant vale, and flow'ry mead,
Are swept like common wreck, the flocks and herds,
Alike of peasants, and their wealthier lord;
Nor human skill, with human prowess join'd,
Can rescue from the ravages of fate,
The heaps of ruin as they float along.

Night with her sable mantle spreads the sky,
And universal horror wraps the scene,
Loud with impetuous gust the whirlwinds roar,
And the high-tow'ring pines and bending oaks,
Rent by the furious blasts forgo their hold,
And hugely fall tremendous on the ground:
Wide, thro' the gloomy vault of Heaven's high arch,
In dismal gleams, the livid lightnings flash,
Dire intervals of more refulgent horror;
Whilst loud above, the frightful thunders roll
In lengthening peals, that shake the firmset earth,
And damp with pale dismay the boldest hearts:
Whilst nature, with the dread convulsion shock'd
Of elemental strife, responsive quakes.
What voice was that, what melancholy shriek,
That pierc'd my ear above the midnight storm;
Fancy, thou shudd'rest; oh, I hear again,
Some midnight trav'ler wilder'd in his way,
With wearied steps exploring all around,
To gain the well known path left far behind;
Lur'd from his way by some small glimpse of light,
That faintly glimmer thro' the darksome waste:
Lost in the perfect gloom that now-prevails,
Unable to regain th' abandon'd path;
Now helpless plunges in the tossing flood,
And sinks unknown, unaided in the deep.

Heave pity, heave the sympathetic sigh,
And if compassion ever touch'd thy heart,
Let fall the tear of sentimental grief,
And from the dismal picture you behold,
Seek to infer the shocking consequence;
Let fancy in thy gen'rous breast suppose.
This midnight victim of the raging storm,
Returning from his task of usual toil;
Toil, that each day procur'd his daily bread,
With the hard earnings of his labouring hours;
Carefully posting to relieve the wants,
The numerous wants of a fond paramour,
And helpless infant progeny, for whom,
With cheerful face and hands inur'd to toil,
Successively he labour'd, nor repin'd
At the stern threat'nings of adversity;
But with a husband's and a father's care,
Still cheerfully avail'd him of his task,
And with avidity each offer seiz'd,
That offer'd kindly for their common good:
Where is his wife, the soother of his cares,
The sweet, fond partner of his every grief?
Like vanquish'd Sisera's wife, by Deborah sung,
She sits expecting till her lord comes home:
But vain alas, she waits her lord's return;
The object of her fond inquietude
No more returns to soothe her throbbing breast:
In vain she listens each successive sound,
In vain she calls him thro' the midnight storm;
No step responsive cheers her list'ning ear;
No kindly voice relieves her fearful heart;
But all distraction to her house she turns,
And there endeavours with her prattling brood,
To still the pensive boadings of her soul,
That throng upon her agitated mind,
And multiply the horrors of the night:
It proves abortive, unsuccessful all;
No reasoning, no philosophy can serve
To counteract the native calls of love;
That genuine voice of nature in the heart,
Which like an engine, wrought by nicest skill,
Plays on the passions with a master's hand;
The power of love all other force defies:
Grey bearded moralists, or sage divines,
Abetted by proud reason's arguments,
Can ne'er resist in human breasts the sway.
Misfortune, in perspective, when beheld
By moralizing men with slight contempt,
May then be view'd; but when on near approach,
Calamities thus jeer'd become our own,
We feel the solid weight, the real pang
That gives substantial reason for complaint;
'Tis then that philosophic reasoning yields,
To the unquestionable voice of nature,
And man, just what he is, a man appears.
So circumstanc'd within her little hut,
In all the agonies that rack the soul,
Sat our fair female; not one dawn of hope
Nor ray of reason can relieve her mind,
When every moment more alarms her fears.
The night in tedious sad expectant spent,
At length gives way to light, and with day's dawn
The storm subsides; she quits her humble shed,
And to the well known way her spouse oft us'd,
She hies impatient; there to learn from chance,
The dreaded tidings of her much fear'd love;
His wonted course across the river lay;
With hasty steps its margin she explores;
Then runs precipitate to where the bridge,
To trav'lers gave free passage o'er the stream:
But the high swollen brook's unusual force,
Had swept away the temporary path,
And left it pathless; this with grief she sees;
Doubt turn to demonstration; hopes no more
Support her sinking heart: aghast she flies
Along the rivulet's meandering verge;
Nor far she flies, for sorrowful to say,
Just where a turning eddy of the stream,
Incessant laves against the tufted clumps
Of falling alders, she her husband finds,
Breathless and cold upon the pebbl'd beach.
Just Heaven! she shrieks, then with convulsive grief,
Falls pale and lifeless on her husband's corpse.

Soft fall the curtain o'er this scene of woe,
Nor thou, O Muse, be too inquisitive,
But stop and shed that tributary tear,
Which virtue, link'd in nature, owes distress;
Nor fondly tracing on the doleful scene,
Impose such task of sentimental woe,
As would o'ercharge the sympathetic heart,
And pour in briny torrents from the eye;
It were too much; the kindly heart that heaves
One gentle sigh, or weep at other's woes,
Tills virtue's claim, and cancel's nature's bond.

Ah! little think you, you whom Heaven has plac'd,
Far plac'd above the reach of fortune's frown;
In the soft chambers of magnificence,
With all the luxuries of wealth and state,
Gay glittering titles, and the empty show
That stamps the fancied vain superior worth,
On man, whom nature ne'er superior doom'd;
Who rack invention for voluptuousness;
Who not content with nature's common gifts,
Seek more than nature yields to gratify
Desires, far more voracious than in brutes:
Whose pride, the produce of domestic thrift,
Contents not; but with still unsated wish
Vies with sovereignty, in pitch of pride:
Crowded by trains of fawning sycophants,
Who with base flattery would soothe the ear
Of him, who like th' ungrateful idol, hears
Their clamorous importunity unmov'd;
Wearied with waiting, in the long levee,
From day to day, to dance attendance vile,
On the perfidious courtly promiser;
Who in his promise, meant nor more nor less,
Than he that bows complaisant to the crowd.

Flatt'ry, thou least of human ornaments;
What passion prompts thee, or what needs thy aid;
Virtue can ne'er solicit thy applause,
Applauded from within; she must detest
Gross adulation: no—'tis vice that needs
Such weak supports as these, sooth'd by the blasts
That mean hypocrisy presents, as praise;
She courts it still, mistaking truth for falsehood:
Yes, here we grant your flattery is good;
Tho' we possess no virtues in ourselves,
It yet informs us what we ought to be.
Yes—'tis to you, you rich in power and ease,
To you I chaunt the pity prompting strain;
Nor let the dirge, attun'd in fell distress,
Be vainly sounded on your callous ears;
Kind providence in you has plac'd the means,
The principles of pity and redress.

When the thick tempest gathering from the north,
Spreads ample desolation in its course,
Hard pressing on the peasant's little hut;
Keen thro' each cranny blows the shivering gale,
Which with an unabated rage, assaults
This chearless tenement; whilst from within,
Unnumber'd woes press hard and thick upon him;
Here hunger, (most implacable of evils),
Stares in his face, whilst his habiliments
Grown mean and tatter'd from all frequent use,
Repel not half the fury of the storm,
Nay, all the dire concommitants that wait,
On starving indigence attack his cell.
Then think ye rich, by fortune kindly plac'd
Above the reach of such calamity;
You cannot, if you would, conceive the woes,
The numerous woes, that poverty attend;
Know then that you are Heaven's plac'd stewards here,
Nor in your office deal unworthily,
Nor by extortion nor embezzlement;
For know that you accountable shall stand,
To him who warrants your authority.
There was a time when kind benevolence
And generous hospitality in man,
Was deem'd a virtue, laudable as good;
When every heart with emulation strove,
Who should excel in charitable deeds;
Thrice happy days! when our illustrious sires,
Inspir'd by that benevolence which warm'd
Their patriotic souls to gen'ral love;
Tho' not illustrious as their future sons,
In gilded titles and the funds of wealth,
In these modern times throw lustre round.

Ere commerce had unfurl'd her vent'rous sail,
To tempt the fickle bosom of the sea;
Drawn by the magnet of luxurious pride,
From foreign regions and remotest climes,
New sources of profusion to collect;
Tho' nature kindly, with a lavish hand,
Had o'er our island, with exuberance pour'd
The choicest stores of necessary blessings:
Ere this, our happy ancestors maintain'd
That gen'rous character, that mark'd their lives
With native honour and romantic virtue.
Werter, the great, the gen'rous, and the good,
Amongst this list, stood high in eminence;
Sorrow in vain ne'er sought his ready aid;
Ere half he'd heard the lamentable tale,
His liberal hand was lifted to relieve;
Like prescient Heaven, t' anticipate
The heart's distress, before the tongue could speak,
His ear impartial each petition heard,
Nor would he suffer with impunity,
The lordly tyrants, that around him liv'd,
To trample on the liberty of those
Whom nature, or whom fortune made too weak,
T' oppose resistance to a despot's rage.

'Twas on a dreary, darksome winter's night
Of bleak December, when the chilling winds
Keen from the north, o'er Caledonia blow;
Thick fell the silent snow; no kindly star
Sheds its bright radiance, to illume the scene
Of gloomy horror that around prevail'd,
Save what reflected from the argent shower
That fell, and falling on the spreading trees,
Form'd lucid incrustations round their boughs:
On such a night with every circumstance
That here seems horrible, just as the bell
Of Werter's hall, the edict curfew rung;
A hasty knock was at the portal heard;
The gen'rous master of the mansion rose,
Nor idly saunt'ring for his servant's aid,
Hasten'd in person fo the palace gate;
But what must be his sorrow and surprise?
Instead of chearful visitants, when here,
With dire astonishment, he prostrate views
A female shape, extended on the ground:
Lifeless she seem'd, whilst o'er her stiff'ning corpse,
(In attitudes that spoke extremest woe),
A man that seem'd her husband stood, whilst by
Three youthful daughters, and an infant son,
Bewail'd in loud laments their mother's fate:
'Twas not a season to interrogate,
Nor ask the fatal causes that had led
These poor unhappy stranger's to his door;
The god-like soul of Werter was alarm'd—
Incited by that power that spurs the heart,
Swift to the sudden burst of human love,
He seiz'd the lifeless matron in his arms,
And with the fond assistance of her spouse,
In mingl'd sorrow, bore her to the hall,
Where with assiduous chaffing, cordials kind,
And other applications well applied,
They soon discover'd signs of perfect life,
Which gave new spirits to the drooping train.
She breathes, she speaks, but in so weak a style,
The feeble symptoms of revivisency,
As yet forbid their certainty of joy.
A deadly paleness sat upon her cheek,
Dull shone the native lustre of her eye,
The heart irregular and various, throbs,
And life hangs doubtful on her quivering lips;
How is my Ella, cried the good old man,
How is our mother, cried the children round:
Oh! I am sick, where am I? Oswald speak,
Are we yet in the cursed Albert's hands?
No, soft, my dear, return'd her kindly spouse,
Be not discomfited, no Albert's here;
Safe in a gen'rous doom, tho' yet unknown,
We find a sanctuary from his rage.

What Albert, said the hospitable lord,
Whose anxious mind had long been on the rack,
To know what cause so strange had brought
These hapless strangers to his door so late:
What tyrant, what inexorable wretch,
With more than hellish cruelty inspir'd,
Could with a ruffian's hand thus thurst you out,
Expos'd to all the bitterness of woe?
When Oswald thus, my lord, my generous lord,
For lordly generous have your actions prov'd,
And all your deeds the epithet assert:
This Albert curs'd, for whom my wife but now
Seem'd to possess that apprehensive dread,
Reigns mighty master of a vast domain
In this vicinity, not far remote,
A mighty baron of extended power,
Whose numerous vassals muster'd in the field,
Impress with terror his surrounding peers;
For him but late 'twas fatally my lot,
As custom is in military tenure,
To hold a little, but a fruitful farm.
Hither my Ellen and myself repair'd,
When first we pledg'd our matrimonial vows,
For erst, my lord, we had known better days,
But at that time our fortune rather chang'd,
And we submitted humbly to that fate,
Which all-wise Providence to us assign'd;
Nor murmur'd we at this our lowly lot,
But with a mutual cheerfulness beguil'd
The tedious hours of our industrious toil:
Here long we liv'd the happiest of the poor,
In calm repose unenvied, undisturb'd,
I in my Ellen blest, whilst mine the task
Was daily to improve my little farm,
And tend the flocks that fed the verdant plain.
But let me be concise, all gracious Heaven,
With four fair children crown'd our faithful loves,
Three blooming daughters and a darling son;
Our eldest in that period now of life,
When youthful beauties captivate the heart;
The crimson hue that glow'd upon her cheek,
The radiant lustre sparkling in her eye,
But more than all her native modesty,
Which shone transcendently o'er all her charms,
Made common beauty seem in her divine.
But ah! forgive a father's fondness here
In painting this fair picture of my child;
Here stands, my lord, the sweet original,
Virtuously innocent, and heavenly fair;
Her late the lustful Baron Albert mark'd
In meditated purpose to deceive,
To lure with flatt'ring and seducing wiles,
To prostitution and to infamy,
The darling virtuous daughter of my age:
Him I detected in his prospects vile,
Led by suspicion to inspect his ways,
His counterfeit punctillious which but serv'd
More to corroborate his guilty schemes;
Him I upbraided with his foul design,
Urg'd all his baseness; yes, my lord, I dar'd,
But dar'd him to my cost, what could I do?
I wept, expostulated, and complain'd,
In all the fury of parental love,
Had his pretensions been on honour built,
Or his designs consistent with his rank,
Still wisely mindful of that humble sphere
In which I liv'd, still with a father's care,
That care, each parent for his child should shew
Who wise in judgments, such disparities
Of title, rank, distinction, and of birth,