YE loud-howling tempests, fell roamers of night, O cease your intrusion, and leave me to rest! I drink-in the terrors you waft in your flight, And I feel a rude chill at my breast. In fancy I stand on the surf-beaten shore; I view the tost vessel that reels on the waves; I hear the wild shriek and the groan -- but 'tis over; It died 'mid the rocks and the caves. Yet the slumber of infancy smiles at the blast: Deep draw'st thou, young orphan, thy innocent breath; Lulled even by the voice of the Spoiler that past To whelm thy lost father in death. I see the fierce storm sweep the snow on the moor; It flies in dim eddies bewildering and chill; Ah, traveller! thy death-bed's the wilderness hoar, Thy tomb is the drift of the hill. I hear the poor exile, forgotten, forlorn, Who breathes from Siberia his famishing prayer; And I shrink at the merciless blast of her morn, That blights the cold home of despair. O! never at my ease may I fancy a charm In the voice of the tempest that beats not on me; Never enliven my safety with scenes of alarm, Composed by the rage of the sea! No; be cheerless my musings, be broken my rest; Let the outcry of nature sound sad in my ears:... Such pitiless pleasure I chase from my breast, And quench my thanksgiving in tears. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A SONG OF A YOUNG LADY TO HER ANCIENT LOVER by JOHN WILMOT PAMPINEA by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH A FAIRY TALE by PHILIP JAMES BAILEY THE VALLEY OF FERN: PART 1 by BERNARD BARTON IN VINCULIS; SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: A CONVENT WITHOUT GOD by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT PROLOGUE FOR THE SILVERDALE VILLAGE PLAYERS: EASTER 1922 by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |