9;n you, on murdering errands toil'd,
lone from your savage homes exil'd,
the blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd
my heart fets,
while pityless the tempest wild
sore on you beats!
now phoebe in her midnight reign,
dark-muff'd, view'd the dreary pin;
still crowding thoughts, a perain,
rose in my soul,
when on my ear this prain,
slow, solemn, stole:—
“blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!
and freeze, thou bitter-biting frost!
desd, ye chilly, sm snows!
not all ye, as now united, shows
more hard unkindnes
A Winter Night(3/7)