Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/65

1820-30.] JULIA L. DUMONT. 49 Pale taper of the glimmering ray, Lamp of the magic spell, Soon as thou climb'st thy azure way, The muses leave their cell, And bid the rushing tide of song, In varying numbers, roll along. With wild tumultuous swell : But hush — their band may now retire. For thou hast quench'd thy vestal fire. THE THUNDER-STORM. No radiant beam has cheer'd the joyless day, Nature seems robed in all her sad attire Obscur'd and dim, tlu'o' mists of thick'ning gray, The sun appears a gloomy ball of fire. But lo ! he sinks fast in the western heaven ; Thro' murky shades the night bird slow- ly flies ; "White-gathering clouds in swift confusion driven, Portend a tempest low'ring in the skies. The moon in darkness vails her crescent form, Tho' late, Ohio, on thy breast she smiled ; Thy turbid wave rolls dark beneath the storm, And round thy arks the rocking winds roar wild. The shivering oak alarms the listening ear, And scattered fragments cross the hunt- er's path; The vengeful besom sweeps the gay par- terre. And ripening fields are marked with fear- ful scath. Redoubling horror all the concave shrouds, Re-echoing thunders startle and affright ; The lightnings dance among the sable clouds. And stream athwart the stormy -bosom'd night. Dark and sublime, amid the fitful glare, Destruction rides triumphant on the storm. While deep and fervent, hark! the voice of prayer Is heard from lips, that never learned its form ! Mid scenes like this the spirit seems to pause ; In wordless dread, on nature's awful verge, Jehovah stands reveal'd, the Eternal Cause, That wakes the storm and binds the THE FUTURE LIFE. Ye faded threads among this still dark hair. Noting with spectral trace time's mock- ing speed ; How deftly weave ye, with your pale hues there, A writing for the conscious soul to read. And let me read: what say those paly lines. Gleaming through locks with woman's pride once bound ? For me the wreaths life's golden summer twines. Brilliant as brief, shall never more be wound. The rich warm prime, when, with soft-col- ored hues. The buds of hope, not here, perhaps, to bloom. ^