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.