The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower. Even love, long tried and cherished long, Becomes more tender and more strong, At thought of that insatiate grave From which its yearnings cannot save. River! in this still hour thou hast Too much of heaven on earth to last; 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 gales, 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; Darker-still darker! the whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air: What roar is that?-'tis the rain that breaks In torrents away from the airy lakes, 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 A vision of thy Switzerland unbound. The bitter cup they mingled, strengthened thee |