 | Letters of Laura D'Auverne |  |
133
THE STORMS.
The sky was blue from east to west,
Yet there was anger in the sky,
And coming storm, as well exprest
As if the blackest clouds rolled by.
No bird upon the air was seen,
The leaves hung moveless, as in awe;
A gloom was on the very green,
And fear in everything we saw.
Yet there was anger in the sky,
And coming storm, as well exprest
As if the blackest clouds rolled by.
No bird upon the air was seen,
The leaves hung moveless, as in awe;
A gloom was on the very green,
And fear in everything we saw.
So sped the day, till from the north,
The warring winds drove on the rain;
And red the tempest gallop'd forth,
With lightning hoof, across the plain.
The trees in terror swept the ground,
The oak lay like a giant thrown;
And from the channel'd hills around
The narrow floods to spray were blown.
The warring winds drove on the rain;
And red the tempest gallop'd forth,
With lightning hoof, across the plain.
The trees in terror swept the ground,
The oak lay like a giant thrown;
And from the channel'd hills around
The narrow floods to spray were blown.
136
When by the western slope, aloof
From river's marge, and torrent's bound,
I saw a lowly cottage roof,
With garden path, and field around.
And from the door, unto the blast,
A helpless girl and babe were driven,
Whose weeping eyes were upward cast,
To Him, who sees our tears, in heaven.
From river's marge, and torrent's bound,
I saw a lowly cottage roof,
With garden path, and field around.
And from the door, unto the blast,
A helpless girl and babe were driven,
Whose weeping eyes were upward cast,
To Him, who sees our tears, in heaven.
Scant was her garb, but from her breast
She tore the last thin robe she had,
And tenderly her babe caress'd,
And warmer its poor bosom clad!
She thought upon her shame,—her sin,
And scarcely felt the tempest's rout:
Alas! the bitter storm within
Smote sharper than the storm without.
She tore the last thin robe she had,
And tenderly her babe caress'd,
And warmer its poor bosom clad!
She thought upon her shame,—her sin,
And scarcely felt the tempest's rout:
Alas! the bitter storm within
Smote sharper than the storm without.
The sun, from forth the rainy cloud,
Flash'd purple jewels o'er the sky;
The mist hung like a silken shroud,
As, robed in gold, the storm rode by.
But she, to misery still a prey,
Sat shivering cold,—the Night's lone guest;
Ah me! earth storms speed soon away,—
The storms of sin do never rest!
Flash'd purple jewels o'er the sky;
The mist hung like a silken shroud,
As, robed in gold, the storm rode by.
But she, to misery still a prey,
Sat shivering cold,—the Night's lone guest;
Ah me! earth storms speed soon away,—
The storms of sin do never rest!
| Letters of Laura D'Auverne | |