THE HURRICANE.

Written in the West Indies.

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 vast, and terribly strong,
The mighty shadow is borne along,
Like the dark eternity to come;
While the world below, dismayed and dumb,
Through the calm of the thick, hot atmosphere,
Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.

They darken fast, and the golden blaze Of the sun is quenched in its lurid haze; And he sends through the shade a funeral ray, A glare, that is neither night nor day; A beam, that touches with hues of death, The clouds above and the earth beneath. 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
His ample robes on the wind unrolled ?
Giant of air, we bid thee hail !
How his grey skirts toss in the whirling gale!
How his huge and writhing arms are bent,
To clasp the zone of the firmament !
And fold at length, in their dark embrace,
From mountain to mountain, the visible space!

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;
Heavily poured on the shuddering ground,
And shedding a nameless horror round.
Ah! well-known woods, and mountains and skies,
With the very clouds! ye are lost to my eyes !
I seek ye vainly, and see in your place
The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space
A whirling ocean, that fills the wall
Of the crystal heaven, and buries all.
And I, cut off from the world, remain,
Alone with the terrible hurricane.

THE SERENADE.

Haste! 'tis the stillest hour of night,
The moon sheds down her palest light,
And sleep has claim'd the lake and hill,
The wood, the plain, the babbling rill;
And where yon ivied lattice shows,
My fair one slumbers in repose.
Come, ye that know the lovely maid,
And help prepare the serenade.
Hither, before the night is flown,
Bring instruments of ev'ry tone.
But lest with noise ye wake, not lull,
Her dreaming fancy, ye must cull
Such only as shall soothe the mind,
And leave the harshest all behind :
Bring not the thund'ring drum, nor yet
The harshly shrieking clarionet,
Nor screaming hautboy, trumpet shrill,
Nor clanging cymbals ; but with skill
Exclude each one that would disturb
The fairy architects, or curb
The wild creations of their mirth,
All that would wake the soul to earth.