Now blow, ye Southern winds, with full release


An Invocation to the southern Winds inscrib'd to the right honourable CHARLES Earl of WINCHELSEA, at his Arrival in LONDON, after having been long detained on the coast of HOLLAND. By the honourable Mrs. FINCH.

Primary Text:

No MS; 1717 Pope's Own (rpt 1935 Ault), 118-23.*
NOW blow, ye Southern winds, with full release,
Bring on the show'rs which give the year encrease,
Shed new perfumes, and cherish those that rose
Ev'n whilst our wishes did your gales oppose;
And all our thoughtful longings were addrest,
To court the blasts of unproducing East.
Eurus! to thee, had so our faith allow'd,
Not only hecatombs all hearts had vow'd,
But plains that fed them had devoted stood,
The fat'ning pasture, and the shelt'ring wood:
The fruitfull walls with the adorn'd parterres,
Had all been offer'd to appease our cares:
Since only thou, who do'st destroy the spring,
Our long expected Winchelsea could'st bring.
A woodbine is the best my fate allows,
Which o're my window spreads its od'rous boughs.
Refreshing, with a secret sweet content,
My lonely sight and my enliven'd scent:
And when to verse my ready thoughts incline,
The fighter's laurell and the drinker's vine
Are prov'd inferior to the favourite tree,
So lov'd it grows, so magnify'd by me.
Yet this I destin'd Eurus to thy breath,
And had with pleasure seen it struck to death.
But now ye Southern winds! with full release,
Since he's return'd and such told wishes cease,
Bring on the show'rs which give the year encrease!

Ill art thou seated, Belgia , to our land,
Since none who hence e'ere touches on thy strand
Can back return without th'offensive aid
Of eastern wind which all our sweets invade;
Destroy the plenty of our gen'rous soile,
And like some hostile force exhaust the ruin'd isle.
No element the balefull Holland knows,
That rarify'd or unencumber'd flows:
Corrupt her waters, gloomy are her streams,
Her earth untemper'd, and her air but steams.
Old Chaos still does there in all preside,
As if Creating pow'r did ne're that mass divide.
How should we then expect, the health we bear
To such a climate, should attend us there?
Nor unassail'd by her contagious harms,
This Lord escap'd, whose full discov'ry warms
Those who deplor'd the sickness he endur'd,
Who languish'd whilst he lay, and by his help were cur'd.
Yet let past ills no present bliss destroy,
But how we griev'd be measur'd by our joy.
When providence the better scene has turn'd,
And gives us comforts for the days we mourn'd,
To hug the image of departed grief
Ungrateful seems, and baffles the relief.
Then let the southern winds with full release,
(Since he's return'd and our distresses cease)
Bring on the show'rs which give the year encrease.

How forreign courts received him be the care
Of our Historians rightly to declare.
Never my thoughts have to far countreys stray'd,
Nor ever to a mind that seeks the shade,
Are glorious tidings brought, or courtly pomps convey'd.
The Muses part is to unfold the worth,
In which unwilling Albion sent him forth.
Desert's our own, and if from thence we claim,
How Others act, nor helps nor shrinks our fame,
Firm stands that basis whilst the billows play,
And sometimes swell the tide, and sometimes float away.
Rich in desert, and ev'ry winning grace,
We grudg'd his absence for the shortest space:
And long'd again united to behold
In him such gifts as ne'er were join'd of old.
Stern was the Roman virtue at the best,
And something of their Founder's nurse confest.
A proud disdain with affectation reign'd
O're Attica , and her perfections stain'd.
Uncleanly Sparta taught contempt of death,
By making life not worth th'expence of breath.
Only our Britain to her sons imparts,
The boldest spirits, with softest hearts.
Unvainted eloquence and wit she gives,
And life's there risqu'd by him that nobly lives.
Among the foremost which she proudly bears
To such applause, her Winchelsea appears.
And may'st thou Britain still this praise possess,
As all my vows are form'd for thy success,
Since none can love thee more, tho' no one shares the less.
Then blow ye southern winds with full release,
Give this distinguish't land a large encrease,
And heaven to plenty add protecting peace.

Whilst Eastwell park does each soft gale invite,
There let them meet and revel in delight,
Amidst the silver beeches spread their wings
Where ev'ry bird as in Arcadia sings.
Where the tall stag in the descending boughs,
May brush the beamy product of his brows.
Where lesser deer o're run th'extended lawns,
And does are follow'd by unnumber'd fawns.
The even plains invite the racer's feet,
As valour steady and as fancy fleet.
Whilst fragrant turf the Rider's heart revives,
And paradise surrounds him while he strives.
Where two fair heads the true Parnassus grace,
And Poetry's a native of the place.
Those Eastwell hills let ev'ry breeze renew,
Which from adjoining seats kind neighbours view;
Pleas'd in the artfull gardens which they boast,
With such a prospect rais'd at nature's cost.
Whilst sailors note them as on waves they rowl,
And make the owner's health add spirits to the bowl.
Far seen they stand, but farther spreads the love,
His condescension does in all improve.
Greatness like Epicurus ' god might lie,
Unheeded if still stretcht above the sky;
Whilst men adore the condescending part,
And worthily he stoops who gathers up a heart,
Take then, my Lord, the hearts which thus are yours,
With all the tribute that this grace procures.
Chear'd by your least regard their love returns,
To greet the influence whence it shines and burns.
Whilst those of rank, plac'd nearer to your height,
Enjoy your spendour with more rais'd delight,
Observe the excellence your thoughts dispense,
And brighter grow from what's reflected thence.
So Phoebus , whilst his beneficial rays,
Attract the plants and every flower displays.
Exhaling from the shrubs which he inspires,
A grateful incense nourisht by his fires,
Round his own orb unmeasur'd light bestows,
There every star and radiant planet glows.
Whose borrow'd heat and affluence of beams,
But magnify the lustre whence it streams.
So happy Kent which your affection shares,
Unbounded joy to meet that love prepares.
Acknowledging from you it takes the heat,
By which it stands confest polite and great.
Come then, my lord, and tread that fruitful earth,
Which courts your presence as it gave you birth.
Come and whilst in your sight all sorrows cease,
Let every gentle wind with full release,
Reresh the fields, and give this year encrease.


A lush natural world alive with beauty and power invoked to celebrate, rejoice, and bring Charles home; Augustan celebration of civilized beauty makes this poem resemble "Upon My Lord Winchilsea's Converting the Mount in his Garden ..." (see 1703-6).


Queen Anne had sent Charles to Holland to announce her accession in March 1702 to her cousin, Sophia, the Dowager Duchess at Hanover; he returned on April 12, 1703. A serious illness "endured" by Charles aboard ship is mentioned as having worried his family; the poem may have been revised or polished late in the year for Finch refers to the storms (and perhaps the coming hurricane) which the fates have been kind enough to spare her nephew. Cameron suggests Anne Finch wrote the poem around the middle of April because in it she is unaware Charles's ship had been attacked by a French squadron (Note 25 to Chapter 28, p 271). The presence of this poem in Pope's 1717 anonymous miscellancy and Finch's prefatory panegyric for Pope's acknowledged Mr Pope's Works, see Mr Pope's Works suggests the two poets were friends in the later 1710s.
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