And pour of deep despair the mournful note.
Oh then, how freely would this hand bestow
A little aid to soothe a brother’s grief,
Wipe the moist traces from the cheek of woe,
And send to every want a kind relief!
But e’en this comfort cruel fate denies,
And nought but powerless pity can I give;
Still doom’d to hear the wretch’s piercing cries,
To hear—and, oh distraction! not relieve.
Then yet a while, unfeeling Winter, rest