208

THE VOICE OF THE GALE.

'Tis the voice of the gale: I have heard its deep moan Through the desolate halls of some fabric o'erthrown; And the accents of those who once gladdened its hearth Seemed again to return to the place of their birth.

'Tis the voice of the gale: mid the desolate plain,
In the forest's dark gloom, I have heard it complain,
Like the tones of some spirit that hovered in air,
And mourned for the children of sorrow and care.

'Tis the voice of the gale, which, to fancy's fond ear,
Seems filled with the accents of those ever dear,-
My friends, my companions, my kindred,-all those
Who have sunk to the sleep of a lasting repose.

Yes; oft, mid its moanings, we dream they are nigh,
And fancy we hear their soft voices reply:
"Tis a vision of bliss, till, by reason o'erthrown,
We hear the rude breath of the tempest alone.

WILD is your airy sweep,

Billows that foam from yonder mountain side

Dashing with whitened crests and thundering tide To seek the distant deep!

Now to the verge ye climb,

Now rush to plunge with emulous haste below; Sounding your stormy chorus as ye go

A never-ending chime!

V*

210

TO A WATERFALL.

Leaping from rock to rock,

Unwearied your eternal course ye hold;

The rainbow tints your eddying waves unfold,

The hues of sunset mock!

Why choose this pathway rude,

These cliffs by gray and ancient woods o'ergrown?
Why pour your music to the echoes lone

Of this wild solitude?

The mead in green array,

With silent beauty wooes your loved embrace;
Would lead you through soft banks, with devious grace,
Along a gentler way.

There, as ye onward roam,

Fresh leaves would bend to greet your waters bright:

Why scorn the charms that vainly court your sight,
Amid these wilds to foam?

Alas! our fate is one

Both ruled by wayward fancy!--All in vain

I question both! My thoughts still spurn the chain— Ye-heedless-thunder on !