Address to the Winds

Ye ruthless winds, whose boist'rous sweep Awakes to rage the boiling deep; Who mock the seaman's fruitless toil, And Ocean glut with frequent spoil; To me restore the favour'd youth, Who, kneeling, vow'd eternal truth; Whose tender tale, devoid of art, Has charm'd my soul, and won my heart; O! swift from India's venal strand, Conduct him to his native land; His wealth to you I here resign, His tender heart alone be mine.