SNOW-CHOP. 
57 
The same. —Montgomery. 
Winter, retire ! 
Thy reign is past; 
Hoary Sire! 
Yield the sceptre of thy sway, 
Sound thy trumpet in the blast. 
And call thy storms away ; 
Winter, retire ! 
Wherefore do thy wheels delay ? 
Mount the chariot of thine ire, 
And quit the realms of day ; 
On thy state 
Whirlwinds wait; 
And blood-shot meteors lend thee light; 
Hence to dreary arctic regions. 
Summon thy terrific legions ; 
Hence to caves of northern night 
Speed thy flight. 
From halcyon seas 
And purer skies, 
O southern breeze ! 
Awake, arise : 
Breath of heaven ! benignly blow, 
Melt the snow; 
Breath of heaven ! unchain the floods, 
Warm the woods, 
And make the mountains flow. 
