 | THE STORM. Water-drops |  |
31. THE STORM.
'Twas a wild night.—
November's storm was out
Upon the murky hills, and at its stroke
The naked forest groaned.
'Twas a wild night—
Yet mid the conflict of the howling winds,
The mother's quick ear caught another sound,
Faint though it was,—for when was love, like hers,
Deaf to its wailing child!
With flying steps
She sought a distant chamber. There her son,
Roused by the thunder of the elements
From his sweet dream, inquir'd, with pallid cheek,
O'er which his shining curls dishevell'd swept,
The meaning of such tumult.
So she placed
Her lamp upon the table, and sate down
Beside his little bed.
“That sound you hear,
Like a hoarse roaring, is the swollen brook
Beating against the stones. For sudden rains
Have raised it brimming to its slender bridge,—
November's storm was out
Upon the murky hills, and at its stroke
The naked forest groaned.
'Twas a wild night—
Yet mid the conflict of the howling winds,
The mother's quick ear caught another sound,
Faint though it was,—for when was love, like hers,
Deaf to its wailing child!
With flying steps
She sought a distant chamber. There her son,
Roused by the thunder of the elements
From his sweet dream, inquir'd, with pallid cheek,
O'er which his shining curls dishevell'd swept,
The meaning of such tumult.
So she placed
Her lamp upon the table, and sate down
Beside his little bed.
“That sound you hear,
Like a hoarse roaring, is the swollen brook
Beating against the stones. For sudden rains
Have raised it brimming to its slender bridge,—
163
And had the violets that you love so well
Not hidden from the frost, they'd all been drown'd
With their young baby buds.—
And then that knock
Against the rattling casement, that is sure
The stiff old cedar, frightened at the storm,
Who spreads his green hands o'er the window panes,
As if to ask for help. Those whistling tones,—
Half cry, half tune,—are from some wandering blast
That sweeps our chimney, and its funnel tall
Maketh an organ pipe.”
“Oh, mother dear!
Waking so suddenly, I scarce could think
What this great uproar meant. But well I know
God rules the storm.”
“Thou dost remember right
Thy Sunday lesson, and apply it well.
But here, while in thy nicely-curtained crib
With downy pillows thou art nestled warm,
Like a young birdling, still bethink thee, boy,
Of the poor traveller 'neath the chilling rain;
And of the sailor on the slippery mast,
And of the wrecking ship amid the waves;
And thank our Bounteous Father in your prayer.”
“Mother, I heard the story of a man,
One, who was cruel to his helpless child,
And drove his wife out in the wintry cold,—
Not hidden from the frost, they'd all been drown'd
With their young baby buds.—
And then that knock
Against the rattling casement, that is sure
The stiff old cedar, frightened at the storm,
Who spreads his green hands o'er the window panes,
As if to ask for help. Those whistling tones,—
Half cry, half tune,—are from some wandering blast
That sweeps our chimney, and its funnel tall
Maketh an organ pipe.”
“Oh, mother dear!
Waking so suddenly, I scarce could think
What this great uproar meant. But well I know
God rules the storm.”
“Thou dost remember right
Thy Sunday lesson, and apply it well.
But here, while in thy nicely-curtained crib
With downy pillows thou art nestled warm,
Like a young birdling, still bethink thee, boy,
Of the poor traveller 'neath the chilling rain;
And of the sailor on the slippery mast,
And of the wrecking ship amid the waves;
And thank our Bounteous Father in your prayer.”
“Mother, I heard the story of a man,
One, who was cruel to his helpless child,
And drove his wife out in the wintry cold,—
164
They said it was the wine and SPIRIT STORM
Made him so bad.
Mother, what storm was that?”
“The storm that may be kindled in ourselves,
My little son, by strong and evil drinks;
Which wake a wilder tempest in the breast
Than that which troubleth nature.
Then the son
Respecteth not his parents,—nor the wife
Loveth her little ones. And men forget
The fear of God, and do such deeds as tears
Can never wash away.—
The glorious sun
Will shine again as bright as if the storm
Had never been, and thou, perchance, may'st see
The arch of radiant colors throw its tint
Upon the passing cloud. But that dark storm
Of fearful passions, hath no blessed bow
Of promise for the soul.”
“I will not be
So wicked, mother, as to drink what makes
Such tempests in the bosom.—Mother, dear!
I never will.”
And then he pressed his lip,
Sobbing with earnestness, upon her cheek,
While tenderly she said,—
Made him so bad.
Mother, what storm was that?”
“The storm that may be kindled in ourselves,
My little son, by strong and evil drinks;
Which wake a wilder tempest in the breast
Than that which troubleth nature.
Then the son
Respecteth not his parents,—nor the wife
Loveth her little ones. And men forget
The fear of God, and do such deeds as tears
Can never wash away.—
The glorious sun
Will shine again as bright as if the storm
Had never been, and thou, perchance, may'st see
The arch of radiant colors throw its tint
Upon the passing cloud. But that dark storm
Of fearful passions, hath no blessed bow
Of promise for the soul.”
“I will not be
So wicked, mother, as to drink what makes
Such tempests in the bosom.—Mother, dear!
I never will.”
And then he pressed his lip,
Sobbing with earnestness, upon her cheek,
While tenderly she said,—
165
“Keep thou this pledge,
Oh true, and tender heart!
And when the days
Of manhood come, and thou art tempted sore,
Still gird thy promise to a faithful breast,
And hold thy footing firm.
So shalt thou bless,
Even in such dialect as angels use,
Thy mother's visit, and this midnight storm.”
Oh true, and tender heart!
And when the days
Of manhood come, and thou art tempted sore,
Still gird thy promise to a faithful breast,
And hold thy footing firm.
So shalt thou bless,
Even in such dialect as angels use,
Thy mother's visit, and this midnight storm.”
| THE STORM. Water-drops | |