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CHARLES COTTON
Winter.
[Poems on several occasions.]
<poem>
Hark! Hark! I hear the north wind roar. See how he riots on the shore! And with expanded wings outstretcht, Ruffles the billows on the beach.
Hark! how the routed waves complain, And call for succour to the main; Flying the storm as if they meant To creep into the continent.
Surely all ÆOL'S huffing brood Are met to war against the flood; Which seems surprised, and has not yet Had time his levies to complete.
The beaten bark, her rudder lost, Is on the rolling billows tost; Her keel now ploughs the ooze, and soon Her topmast tilts against the moon.
'Tis strange the pilot keeps his seat, His bounding ship does so curvet: Whilst the poor passengers are found In their own fears, already drowned.
- <poem>
