University of Virginia Library

With dawn we started on our pilgrimage;
The day was fair at first, with rosy streaks
Suffusing all the east, that, as the sun
Rose radiant o'er the tree tops, grew to gold,
And, softening palely as he soar'd aloft,
Yielded, at length, to the intenser fires
He kindled as he sped. But, ere an hour,
And while the flaming standard he advanced
Flaunted most proudly o'er his eastern towers,
We mark'd a dissonant aspect in the west,
That glow'd adverse—a cloud with sulphurous edge,
Rising with gradual vans that soon diffused
Its murky tints o'er half the western heavens,
Thence stretching to the north. Suddenly fell
A weight upon the atmosphere, that breathed
Wearily, and with moaning, as at night
The giant struggles with the incubus,—
Struggles and sighs but with no power to stir.
Hotly, as from a furnace, came the breath,
That was nor breeze nor zephyr, from the south,
Where denser grew the shape. Shorn of his beams,
Yet burning redly in a vaporous void,
The sun toil'd on in heaven, as dreading still
The encounter that now threaten'd in his path.
Momently grew he paler as he sped,
Then sudden sank from sight,—swallow'd in a sea,
That all his beams extinguish'd. Over all
Hung the gigantic shape that soon became
The pall of the universe; and, settling down,
Shrouded the sky and forest. Thus the mass
Hung brooding, while accumulating clouds
Merged momently within its large embrace,
That still expanded wide. The great pines groan'd
As straining 'neath the burden that they bore,
And shuddering with a something yet to bear
From the great vans incumbent. Slow the day
Creeps on; a deathly silence wraps the scene
As of a terror threatening.

Wer't cloud, or wind,
Or storm of rain and thunder, that impends,
It might be well to hurry on our way
With traveller hardihood, that rates the hours
By miles, and at the measured hostel baits.
But he who dwells beneath a tropic sky,
Knows better in these aspects what to fear.
The lowly cabin of the Borderer,
Close crouching in the shade of yonder hill,
Offers best shelter. Thither, for a while,
Till these great wings, expanding with their blasts,
Collapse in arrowy tempests, that shoot swift
While forests groan, and sink beneath their sweep,
And placid waters, from their valleys roused,
Roll, raging in their terror—roll apart,
To meet again in strife, with angry crests,
That thunder as they meet. The awful hush,—
The sultry atmosphere—the stifling breath
That makes the laboring bosom heave with toil,—
Betoken wrath. This is the Hurricane!
The Vampire of the storm, whose raven wings
Spread, pall-like, o'er the Earth it lulls to sleep,
Till, in the deepest lull of its sad dream
It rouses; and, with ruthless and wild shriek,
Goes raging, rending,—with a power that sweeps
The forest, and upon the eternal rocks
Scores terribly the record of its wrath!

We soon found refuge in the lowly cot,—
A most rude cottage of trimm'd pines, that crouch'd
In safety 'mongst the shadow-keeping hills.
From the piazza—with an anxious gaze,
We watched the approaching terror! Group'd around
Gather'd the simple household,—sire and dame,
And scores of little ones. Too well they knew,
By frequent witness, of that fearful shape,
With its black, brooding aspect. Year by year,
Had they beheld its progress—felt its breath
Of fire,—precursor of its arrowy flight,
And seen the terrible ruin which it wrought
In glorious realms of forest, as it rush'd,
With flight of thousand thunderbolts,—and share,
Ploughing through woods and fields, smiting great heads,
And leaving bald the places which had been
Bless'd with the undulating green of trees
And waving shrubs and blossoms; in their stead—
Those fearful wings gone over it—prostrate forms
Torn, rent and shattered,—indiscriminate piles,
Lying as writhing in their agonies:
A battle-field where none survives—where fate
Sweeps victor and vanquish'd equally; the plain
Sharing the deadly blight of those it bore,
Its green shrubs wither'd, and the desolate earth
Made sterile, with a charm no more in flowers.

“See,” said my old companion of the route—
“See where its black brows tower above yon steep,
The shape contracting 'neath it, crouching close,
Keen watching, as it were, with appetite
Raging for blood, like tiger that in tree,
Waits the approaching victim.
We might deem,—
Taught by superior instinct,—that these folds
Lurid and black, like robes that shroud the Fates,
Conceal'd some terrible Demon—some dread power
Commission'd to destroy; even as the Fate
That hung o'er Nineveh in storm and fire,
Nor fled, till o'er its temples went the sea
Of bitumen, and from its thousand homes,
Ceased sudden the long cry of agony,
The work being done forever.
That dread shape
So silent, brooding with the doom it brings,
Hath its own life and mission. It obeys,
With human consciousness the will that bids—
“Go!”—and it goeth. It will plunge anon
A mountain in its might, yet, in its sweep,
Mocking the free wing'd eagle. What a power
To work in such a guise: so ill defined,
So vast and so unseemly to the eye;
So incompact and vague. See, in the south
For many a league outstretch'd, the sluggish form
Lies shapeless—volume upon volume piled,—
Thin robes of gray between,—a melting mist,
That wraps its dusky limbs as in a sea,
Whose farthest waters lose themselves from sight
In deepening folds of cloud. And now the shape
Takes motion: soon that motion will be life!
How terrible the pause that grows between!
Thick vapors close around us, stifling and hot,
Till, with a difficult breath, we pray for storm,—
For the wild tempest in its angriest mood,
That threatens,—rather than the breath of fire
It sends in foretaste of the wrath to come!
Nor pray we long in vain! A wing is felt,
That stirs the masses with a sulphurous gale,
Evolving all their lightnings. Murmurs swell,
Mysterious, low, as rising from the seas;
A hollow voice, that, kindred with their depths,
Takes on the sullen chiding of their caves,
And threatens with their billows. Now, a shaft
Speeds sudden from the bosom of the cloud,
Opening the sable jaws that close as soon,
Just showing the dread gulfs that lie below,
Steaming with thunders. Deeper murmurs flow
From the faint edges of the o'erwhelming mass,
Whose vans are now in motion, wide unroll'd;
But, ever and anon, up-curling still
Their lengthen'd volumes as for newer strength.
Thus the grim serpent, eager for his prey,
Contracts his spiry form in knotted folds,
That he may better fling him forth in ire,
With muscle proper to his venomous will!
Look, where the lighter volumes upward float,
To fill the valleys which the terrible shape
Hath yielded. See them, as they mix, and make
A whirlpool in the sky. The birds fly low,
Screaming for shelter to the stunted copse:—
The vulture hath no longer eye for prey;
A single owl cries hooting from the wood,
As grateful for the darkening sky he loves;—
And the imperial savage who presides
O'er the thin realms of air, with wing less swift
In flight than conflict, bends his eastward way
To some abandon'd summit of the storm!
The horrid pause is o'er! It comes at last,
The shrieking terror, with convulsive bounds,
Solemn but swift, that still before its path,
Sends fearful intimations of approach;—
Even as some mighty host of Attila
Goes singing into battle,—singing of blood,
And striking horrid shields with spears of rage.
How sullenly bend the great boughs of the wood!
The oak scarce breasts the strife, and groans to meet
Its legions. To the roaring in the skies
Ascends the voice of waters. Deep to deep
Is calling—and their mighty concerts make
An awful choir of storm. Behold, where still
The black battalions gather for the charge;—
The wings contract—the rearward masses crowd,
As struggling for the van. A deadlier shape
Shoots outward from the midst; and, breathing now
With pestilent heat along its destined path,
It gives the terrible signal, which begins
The warring of three worlds. With lightnings arm'd,
The fearful spectre hurries on his course,
And the great forests crouch. The mountains heave,
As with the earthquake's labors; and the plain
Is shrouded with his legions. For the sea
They take their arrowy progress. The strong pine
They wring while passing, and with scornful might
Tear from the earth the great well-rooted oak,
And fling it on their path. Sweet fields that lay—
The virgin gifts of summer, by the sun
Bestow'd, when first he look'd on her with love,—
Are plough'd with furrows, such as leave broad scars
For ages on their beauty, and deform!
But reckless, the invader with his scourge
Their lawnéd realms still ravages. An hour
Hath left the blight of centuries. Too late,
Though with such terrible haste, he darts away
For other victories. For the seas he speeds,
With power that grows from progress. Ocean roars
With mortal agonies, as his giant form
Down plunges in its billows. The green waves
Divide in horror! With triumphant shriek
He ploughs the abyss, lays its deep hollows bare,
And shows their ghastly secrets. Then away
He hurries, as if satisfied in rage:—
His lengthening lines still following, howling hoarse,
In train of battle, and his terrible form
Still rending, till the gray void swallows all!