Thou hast thy beauties: sterner ones, I own,

Than those of thy precursors; yet to thee

Belong the charms of solemn majesty

And naked grandeur. Awful is the tone

Of thy tempestuous nights, when clouds are blown

By hurrying winds across the troubled sky;

Pensive, when softer breezes faintly sigh

Through leafless boughs, with ivy overgrown.

Thou hast thy decorations too; although

Thou art austere: thy studded mantle, gay

With icy brilliants, which as proudly glow

As erst Golconda’s; and thy pure array

Of regal ermine, when the drifted snow

Envelopes nature; till her features seem

Like pale, but lovely ones, seen when we dream.