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- <poem>
Hark! hark! their voices higher rise, They tear the welkin with their cries. The very rocks their fury feel, And like sick drunkards nod and reel.
Louder and louder, still they come Nile's cataracts to these are dumb. The CYCLOPS to these blades, are still; Whose anvils shake the burning hill.
Were all the stars enlightened skies, As full of ears as sparkling eyes; This rattle in the crystal hall, Would be enough to deaf them all.
What monstrous race is hither tost, Thus to alarm our British coast With outcries; such as never yet War or confusion could beget.
Oh! now I know them, let us home. Our mortal enemy is come. WINTER and all his blust'ring train Have made a voyage o'er the main.
Banisht the countries of the sun, The fugitive is hither run; To ravish from our fruitful fields All that the teeming season yields.
Like an invader, not a guest; He comes to riot, not to feast: And in wild fury overthrows Whatever does his march oppose.
- <poem>
