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William Wordsworth - On The Same Occasion
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(The Final Submission Of The Tyrolese)

YE Storms, resound the praises of your King!
And ye mild Seasons--in a sunny clime,
Midway on some high hill, while father Time
Looks on delighted--meet in festal ring,
And loud and long of Winter`s triumph sing!
Sing ye, with blossoms crowned, and fruits, and flowers,
Of Winter`s breath surcharged with sleety showers,
And the dire flapping of his hoary wing!
Knit the blithe dance upon the soft green grass;
With feet, hands, eyes, looks, lips, report your gain;      
Whisper it to the billows of the main,
And to the aerial zephyrs as they pass,
That old decrepit Winter--`He` hath slain
That Host, which rendered all your bounties vain!
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