Our melting clime; except the baleful east
Withers the tender spring, and sourly checks
The fancy of the year. Our fathers talk 260
Of summers, balmy airs, and skies serene.
Good heaven! for what unexpiated crimes
This dismal change! The brooding elements
Do they, your powerful ministers of wrath,
Prepare some fierce exterminating plague? 265
Or is it fix’d in the Decrees above
That lofty Albion melt into the main?