HATING the gentle zephyrs am'rous sighs,
Hating the smoothness of the glassy main,
From prison'd cave, impatient to arise,
He struggles wild, vast freedom to attain.

And when unfetter'd from superiour force,
He rushes loud the waken'd waters o'er;
Or taking o'er the hills his viewless course,
Wild echo thro' the woods repeats the roar.

Or when autumnal leaves he scatters far,
Or mournful sighs the crannied rocks among,
Till dark-rob'd winter mounts her ebon car,
Then hails his queen, and howls her path along.

For he disdains fair summer's gentle form,
And hates unruffl'd eve in vestments gay;
He loves to battle in the pelting storm,
And scatter devastation on his way.