Scarce visible, but watch’d as anxiously
As would a mother watch the first faint tinge
Of health revisiting her child's wan cheek,
Where every thought and hope had long time clung—
Light of the voyage drear—their native shore.
A sound breaks the still silence, and a cloud
Is gathering on the air: that sound is not
The tumult of the storm; and the dark roll
Of yon black volume, rising streak'd with fire,
Is not the tempest's dwelling;—'tis the breath,
The fiery breath of war; and man has dar'd
Profane the quiet of an hour like this!
Battle ! destruction!—does the world contain
One spot, whereon your baneful taint is not?—
A thicker darkness gathers; 'tis not now
Alone the dense smoke curling; hark, yon roll!
Echoing the cannon, as in mockery.
The winds have burst their slumber, and are risen,
