Poem by George Crabbe

Ye Gentle Gales

Woodbridge, 1776.

Ye gentle Gales, that softly move,
Go whisper to the Fair I love;
Tell her I languish and adore,
And pity in return implore.

But if she's cold to my request,
Ye louder Winds, proclaim the rest--
My sighs, my tears, my griefs proclaim,
And speak in strongest notes my flame.

Still, if she rests in mute disdain,
And thinks I feel a common pain-- 
Wing'd with my woes, ye Tempests, fly,
And tell the haughty Fair I die.

1. The Learning of Love
2. Parody on [Byrom's] “My Time, Oh Ye Muses”
3. Hymn
4. The Wish
5. Mira

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