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A gentle hill its side inclines,
I wandered through the lofty halls
That last half-stanza, – it has dashed
These are not the romantic times
Lord of the winds ! I feel thee nigh, I know thy breath in the burning sky And 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, 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 the 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 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 1 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 ?—'t is 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
Alone with the terrible hurricane. - WiLLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
To men of other minds my fancy flies, Embosomed in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land, And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. Onward methinks, and diligently slow, The firm connected bulwark seems to grow; Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, Scoops out an empire, and usurps the shore. While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile; The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, The crowded mart, the cultivated plain, A new creation rescued from his reign.
Thus while around the wave-subjected soil Impels the native to repeated toil, Industrious habits in each bosom reign, And industry begets a love of gain. Hence all the good from opulence that springs, With all those ills superfluous treasure brings, Are here displayed.
FAR to the right where Apennine ascends, Bright as the summer, Italy extends. Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, Woods over woods, in gay theatric pride; While oft some temple's mouldering tops between With venerable grandeur mark the scene.
Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely blest. Whatever fruits in different climes were found, That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground; Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, Whose bright succession decks the varied year; Whatever sweets salute the northern sky With vernal lives, that blossom but to die; These here disporting own the kindred soil, , Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;