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 gray 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 stormy March is come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies;
I hear the rushing of the blast,
That through the snowy valley flies.
Ah, passing few are they who speak,
Wild stormy month! in praise of thee; Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, Thou art a welcome month to me.
For thou, to northern lands again,
The glad and glorious sun dost bring,
And thou hast joined the gentle train And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.
And, in thy reign of blast and storm, Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day, When the changed winds are soft and warm, And heaven puts on the blue of May.
Then sing aloud the gushing rills
And the full springs, from frost set free,
That, brightly leaping down the hills,
Are just set out to meet the sea.
The year's departing beauty hides Of wintry storms the sullen threat; But, in thy sternest frown abides
A look of kindly promise yet.
Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, And that soft time of sunny showers,
When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours.
THE country ever has a lagging Spring,
Waiting for May to call its violets forth,
And June its roses-showers and sunshine bring, Slowly, the deepening verdure o'er the earth;
put their foliage out, the woods are slack, And one by one the singing-birds come back.
Within the city's bounds the time of flowers Comes earlier. Let a mild and sunny day, Such as full often, for a few bright hours,
Breathes through the sky of March the airs of May, Shine on our roofs and chase the wintry gloom- And lo! our borders glow with sudden bloom.
For the wide sidewalks of Broadway are then Gorgeous as are a rivulet's banks in June, That overhung with blossoms, through its glen,
Slides soft away beneath the sunny noon, And they who search the untrodden wood for flowers Meet in its depths no lovelier ones than ours.
For here are eyes that shame the violet, Or the dark drop that on the pansy lies, And foreheads, white, as when in clusters set, The anemonies by forest fountains rise;
And the spring-beauty boasts no tenderer streak Than the soft red on many a youthful cheek.
And thick about those lovely temples lie
Locks that the lucky Vignardonne has curled, Thrice happy man! whose trade it is to buy,
And bake, and braid those love-knots of the world; Who curls of every glossy colour keepest, And sellest, it is said, the blackest cheapest.
And well thou may'st-for Italy's brown maids
Send the dark locks with which their brows are dressed, And Gascon lasses, from their jetty braids,
Crop half, to buy a riband for the rest;
But the fresh Norman girls their tresses spare, And the Dutch damsel keeps her flaxen hair.
Then, henceforth, let no maid nor matron grieve, To see her locks of an unlovely hue,
Frouzy or thin, for liberal art shall give
Such piles of curls as nature never knew. Eve, with her veil of tresses, at the sight Had blushed, outdone, and owned herself a fright.
Soft voices and light laughter wake the street, Like notes of woodbirds, and where'er the eye Threads the long way, plumes wave, and twinkling feet Fall light, as hastes that crowd of beauty by. The ostrich, hurrying o'er the desert space, Scarce bore those tossing plumes with fleeter pace.
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