4 When rolling seasons cease to change,
    Inconstancy forgets to range;
    When lavish May no more shall bloom,
    Nor gardens yield a rich perfume;
    When Nature from her sphere shall start,
    I’ll tear my Nanny from my heart.

* * * * *

  ODE TO INDEPENDENCE.

  STROPHE.

  Thy spirit, Independence! let me share,
    Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye;
  Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,
    Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky. 
  Deep in the frozen regions of the north,
  A goddess violated brought thee forth,
  Immortal Liberty, whose look sublime,
  Hath bleach’d the tyrant’s cheek in every varying clime. 
    What time the iron-hearted Gaul,
  With frantic Superstition for his guide, 10
    Arm’d with the dagger and the pall,
  The sons of Woden to the field defied;
  The ruthless hag, by Weser’s flood,
    In Heaven’s name urged the infernal blow,
    And red the stream began to flow: 
  The vanquished were baptised with blood![1]

  ANTISTROPHE.

  The Saxon prince in horror fled
    From altars stain’d with human gore;
  And Liberty his routed legions led
    In safety to the bleak Norwegian shore. 20
  There in a cave asleep she lay,
    Lull’d by the hoarse resounding main;
  When a bold savage pass’d that way,
    Impell’d by destiny, his name Disdain.

  Of ample front the portly chief appear’d: 
    The hunted bear supplied a shaggy vest;
  The drifted snow hung on his yellow beard,
    And his broad shoulders braved the furious blast. 
  He stopp’d; he gazed; his bosom glow’d,
    And deeply felt the impression of her charms; 30
  He seized the advantage Fate allow’d,
    And straight compress’d her in his vigorous arms.

  STROPHE.

  The curlew scream’d, the Tritons blew
    Their shells to celebrate the ravish’d rite;
  Old Time exulted as he flew,
    And Independence saw the light;
  The light he saw in Albion’s happy plains,
    Where, under cover of a flowering thorn,
  While Philomel renew’d her warbled strains,
    The auspicious fruit of stolen embrace was born. 40
  The mountain Dyriads seized with joy
    The smiling infant to their charge consign’d;
  The Doric Muse caress’d the favourite boy;
    The hermit Wisdom stored his opening mind: 
  As rolling years matured his age,
    He flourish’d bold and sinewy as his sire;
  While the mild passions in his breast assuage
    The fiercer flames of his maternal fire.

  ANTISTROPHE.