W HENCE , the shades to discompose,
And the Night that loves repose —
Whence — in Fury never dumb,
Is the howling Tempest come?

Indiscriminate, and blind,
It has mountains left behind;
They , with Cedar , and with Oak ,
Laugh at his impending stroke.

Why — to dissipate, in vain,
Morpheus and his peaceful train,
All the windows, rattling, shake;
All that slumber'd here, awake?

Hurricane! — what right o'er me
Gives the silent hour to thee?
Mine are dreams on Fancy's wing;
None can hear me, when I sing.

Back to thy dishonour'd cave,
In the Ocean's thundering wave!
Nor preferment hope to reap
For a Poet's rifled sleep!