THE HURRICANE. LORD of the winds! I feel thee nigh, I know thy breath in the burning sky! And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, For the coming of the hurricane! And lo! on the wing of the heavy galės, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails; Silent and slow, and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, While the world below, dismayed and dumb, They darken fast; and the golden blaze Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, A beam that touches, with hues of death, The clouds above and the earth beneath. R To its covert glides the silent bird, While the hurricane's distant voice is heard, Uplifted among the mountains round, And the forests hear and answer the sound. He is come! he is come! do ye not behold How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale ; And fold at length, in their dark embrace, Darker still darker! the whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air: And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud! You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, And flood the skies with a lurid glow. What roar is that?-'tis the rain that breaks In torrents away from the airy lakes, And shedding a nameless horror round. Ah! well known woods, and mountains, and skies, Of the crystal heaven, and buries all. WILLIAM TELL. A SONNET. CHAINS may subdue the feeble spirit, but thee, That creed is written on the untrampled snow, Thundered by torrents which no power can hold, Save that of God, when he sends forth his cold, And breathed by winds that through the free heave blow. Thou, while thy prison walls were dark around, Didst meditate the lesson Nature taught, And to thy brief captivity was brought The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee THE HUNTER'S SERENADE. THY bower is finished, fairest! Fit bower for hunter's bride Where old woods overshadow I've wandered long, and wandered far, In all this lovely western land, A spot so lovely yet. But I shall think it fairer, When thou art come to bless, With thy sweet smile and silver voice, Its silent loveliness. For thee the wild grape glistens, On sunny knoll and tree, The slim papaya ripens Its yellow fruit for thee. For thee the duck, on glassy stream, The prairie-fowl shall die, |