THE HURRICANE. Written in the West Indies. LORD of the Winds! I feel thee nigh! And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails; The mighty shadow is borne along, While the world below, dismayed and dumb, They darken fast, and the golden blaze A beam, that touches with hues of death, While the hurricane's distant voice is heard, Uplifted, among the mountains round, And the forests hear and answer the sound. How his grey skirts toss in the whirling gale! What roar is that!-'tis the rain that breaks Ah! well-known woods, and mountains and skies, The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space- Of the crystal heaven, and buries all. THE SERENADE. HASTE! 'tis the stillest hour of night, The wild creations of their mirth, All that would wake the soul to earth. |