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.