'Twas not the season when the storm
Of winter wears its savage form;
Black'ning all, the frozen North
Wildly spreads its awful wings,
From yon bare summit rushes forth,
And on that barren desart, flings
All the rapid torrents might,
When with turbulence they sweep,
Mingling, with the winds of might,
Sounds majestically deep —
When nature form'd the hideous waste, she frown'd,
And gave to horror its deserted bound.