TO WINTER.
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Winter 1 bar thine adamantine doors :The North is thine ; there hast thoa built thy darkDeep-founded habitation. Shake not thy rooft.Nor bend thy pillars with thine iron car. He hears me not, but o'er the jrawning deepRides heavy ; his storms are unchain^ sheathedIn ribbM steel ; I dare not lift mine eyes ;For he hath reared his sceptre o'er the world. Lo ! now the direful monster, whose skin clingsTo his strong bones, strides o*er the groaning rocks:He withers all in silence, and in his handUnclothes the earth, and freezes up frail life. He takes his seat upon the cliiis,— the marinerCries in vain. Poor little wretch^ that deal'stWith storms ! — ^till heaven smiles, and the monsterIs driv'n yelling to his caves beneath Mount Heda.
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