YE GENTLE GALES.

By George Crabbe

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.