East Wind. (The Winds)

Shouts, and the noise of war!     Far o'er the land hath been my flight,     O'er many a forest dark as night,     O'er champaigns where the Tartar speeds,     O'er Wolga's wild and giant reeds,     O'er the Carpathian summits hoar,     Beneath whose snows and shadows frore,     Poland's level length unfolds     Her trackless woods and wildering wolds,     Like a spirit, seeking rest,     I have passed from east to west,     While sounds of discord and lament     Rose from the earth where'er I went.     I care not; hurrying, as in scorn,     I shook my lance, and blew my horn;     The day shows clear; and merrily     Along the Atlantic now I fly.     Who comes in soft and spicy vest,     From the mild regions of the West?     An azure veil bends waving o'er his head,     And showers of violets from his hands are shed.     'Tis Zephyr, with a look as young and fair     As when his lucid wings conveyed     That beautiful and gentle maid     Psyche, transported through the air,     The blissful couch of Love's own god to share.     Winter, avaunt! thy haggard eye     Will scare him, as he wanders by,     Him and the timid butterfly.     He brings again the morn of May;     The lark, amid the clear blue sky,     Carols, but is not seen so high,     And all the winter's winds fly far away!     I cried: O Father of the world, whose might     The storm, the darkness, and the winds obey,     Oh, when will thus the long tempestuous night     Of warfare and of woe be rolled away!     Oh, when will cease the uproar and the din,     And Peace breathe soft, Summer is coming in!