IF, going forth in the snow and the hail, In the wind and the rain, On the desolate hills, in the face of the gale, I could meet thee again; Ah! with what rapture my bosom would beat And my steps onward pass, With a smile on my lip, while the thin driving sleet Soaked through the cold grass! But never-the hour can never have birth That would gladden me thus; There are meetings, and greetings, and welcomes on earth, But no more for us! No more shalt thou comfort the long dreary night, Or the brief bitter day; When my heart feels the pang of a serpent's keen bite In the words others say; No more shall thy letters come in with the morn, Making sunshine for hours, With thoughts of an innocent tenderness born, 174 IN THE STORM. With praises whose love used to cheer and to bless, And fond closing words that felt like a caress Many missives lie heaped, to be read in their turn. Oh! tender and true, In the blank of that hour how wildly I yearn Unmeaning and vapid, or bitter, the words Which I blot with vain tears: Thy pity no longer the solace affords I shall see thee no more, till life's trial shall cease, With thy sweet eyes so full of the spirit of peace, I shall hear thee no more, with that low gentle voice Like the harp of young David, the spirit rejoice I fling wide my casement: forth, forth I would roam, As it beats, sweeping inward, to visit a home The grey clouds are scudding in vaporous shrouds I think of the tombs that are planted in crowds— IN THE STORM. I think, does the same wind that sweeps by me now, Thrill the pools in that graveyard, of half-melted snow, And I cry in my anguish, "Appear! as in life,— And my soul shall not fear: Pass over this sea of my trouble and strife!" I turn from the casement, and helplessly stare The drift of the sleet on my arms and my hair The rush of the wild river rolling along Is loud in my ear 'The wind through the beech-trees is heavy and strong, But that sound cometh clear. I know that dark river-its waters sweep down, Be the day ne'er so bright, 175 With the deep changeless hues of the Cairngorm's brown, Though its foam-flakes are white. I know that dark river-it swells and it swirls Past the hindering bridge; And the trees topple down as the branches it hurls The turbulent waters drive on in their force Like the thoughts in my breast But the stones lying deep in the torrent's wild cours 176 IN THE STORM. Under-deep under those arches' wide girth, Where nothing is stirred, And the sound of Life's whirlwinds that traverse the earth Can never be heard! Under-deep under. But lo! while I dream, From a vanishing cloud The pale moon looks forth, with her strange tranquil gleam, Like a ghost in its shroud. Her white smile the brown rolling river hath kissed; To see her sail past through a rift in the mist That is veiling the skies. And I think of the rest, in the dark waters near, To its stony bed given; And I think of that light shining gentle and clear;— Till, the wild storm subsiding, forth comes by the moon Is there rest? but the earth seems so near, as I swoon- Caroline Norton. AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. 177 AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN. ALL hail! thou noble land, Our fathers' native soil! O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore; The genius of our clime, From his pine-embattled steep, While the Tritons of the deep With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim; Though ages long have passed O'er untravelled seas to roam,- That blood of honest fame, Which no tyranny can tame Modern Poets. 12 |