Poems by the late John Bethune With a sketch of the author's life, by his brother |
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THE FIRST OF WINTER. |
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| II. |
 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
THE FIRST OF WINTER.
Oh! sadly sighs the wint'ry breeze
Along the desert lea;
And moaning 'mid the forest trees
It sings a dirge to me—
The solemn dirge of dying flowers—
The death-song of the emerald bowers—
The first loud whistled lay
Which summons winter's stormy powers
On his coronation day,
Along the desert lea;
And moaning 'mid the forest trees
It sings a dirge to me—
The solemn dirge of dying flowers—
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The first loud whistled lay
Which summons winter's stormy powers
On his coronation day,
Darker and darker grows the sky;
With voice more loud, and louder still
The stormy winds sweep by, and fill
The ear with awful melody.
Each tone of that majestic harp
Wakes other tones within to warp
My soul away, amid its bass,
To the greenwood, which lately was
A picture to my eye—
Which now is murk and bare!—alas!
Its sere leaves rustle by.
With voice more loud, and louder still
The stormy winds sweep by, and fill
The ear with awful melody.
Each tone of that majestic harp
Wakes other tones within to warp
My soul away, amid its bass,
To the greenwood, which lately was
A picture to my eye—
Which now is murk and bare!—alas!
Its sere leaves rustle by.
But ah! that tempest music tells
A tale which saddens more—
Of hearts it tells where sorrow dwells
On many a rocky shore,
Where the poor bark is dash'd and driven,
And plunged below, and toss'd to heaven,
Amid the ocean's roar.
And oh! its wild and varied song
Hath an appalling power,
As swellingly it sweeps along
O'er broken tree and blasted flower.
The loud, loud laugh of frenzied lips,
The sigh of sorrowing breath,
The dread, dread crash of sinking ships,
The gurgling shriek of death,
Affection's wildest, warmest wish,
Devotion's holiest cry,
Are blended with that maddening blast,
And on the chords of sympathy
Their varying accents now are cast.
A tale which saddens more—
Of hearts it tells where sorrow dwells
On many a rocky shore,
Where the poor bark is dash'd and driven,
And plunged below, and toss'd to heaven,
Amid the ocean's roar.
And oh! its wild and varied song
Hath an appalling power,
As swellingly it sweeps along
O'er broken tree and blasted flower.
The loud, loud laugh of frenzied lips,
The sigh of sorrowing breath,
The dread, dread crash of sinking ships,
The gurgling shriek of death,
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Devotion's holiest cry,
Are blended with that maddening blast,
And on the chords of sympathy
Their varying accents now are cast.
Sad voies to the maid it bears
Who, wrapp'd in sorrow, sits,
And in her dreaming fancy hears,
Amid its calmer fits,
The shriek of her expiring lover,
As the white wave rolls rudely over
His sinking head and struggling breath,
And dips him in the gulf of death.
It tells of orphans and of mothers,
Poor, helpless, and bereft—
It bears the love, the grief of brothers,
In lonely sufferance left;
It wafts the wail of strong despair,
Mingled with murmur'd sounds of prayer.
And true hearts throb, and bright young eyes
With burning tear-drops glisten,
As round and round its thunders rise,
Or slow in solemn moaning dies,
Saddening the ears that listen.
Who, wrapp'd in sorrow, sits,
And in her dreaming fancy hears,
Amid its calmer fits,
The shriek of her expiring lover,
As the white wave rolls rudely over
His sinking head and struggling breath,
And dips him in the gulf of death.
It tells of orphans and of mothers,
Poor, helpless, and bereft—
It bears the love, the grief of brothers,
In lonely sufferance left;
It wafts the wail of strong despair,
Mingled with murmur'd sounds of prayer.
And true hearts throb, and bright young eyes
With burning tear-drops glisten,
As round and round its thunders rise,
Or slow in solemn moaning dies,
Saddening the ears that listen.
Yet more—it tells of more—
Of Him who on its murky wing
Rides calmly, and directs its roar,
Or stills it with his nod:
Its voice is raised even now to sing
A wilder melody to God,
Who holds it in night's silent hush
Within the hollow of his hand,
Or bids it from his presence rush
In desolation o'er the land:
At his command alone it raves
O'er roofless cots and tumbling waves.
Of Him who on its murky wing
Rides calmly, and directs its roar,
Or stills it with his nod:
Its voice is raised even now to sing
A wilder melody to God,
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Within the hollow of his hand,
Or bids it from his presence rush
In desolation o'er the land:
At his command alone it raves
O'er roofless cots and tumbling waves.
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |