That sniffling deity, that wingèd blind—
And vowed to clip his wings as short as monks
Their stubbed beards more short than panèd trunks,
Unless he shot a dart with more than speed,
To make Bellama's heart affections bleed.
Bold ocean foams with spite, his neb-tides roar,
His billows top and top-mast high do soar.
Nature herself is sullen, keeps her bed,
And will not rise so much as dress her head:
1840Regardless of the seasons, will not see