Cease your desolating sound, O ye furious winds! forbear— Every gust that swells around Chills my shuddering heart with fear. Ah! the thoughtless time is past When I mark'd the rapid flight Of each wildly rushing blast, With romantic gay delight. When in sportive frolic dance, With the gale I skimm'd the plain, Or would breathlessly advance, Laughing at its fury vain. Often too, in graver mood, I have heard the tempest roll, While a joy sublimely rude Has possess'd and charm'd my soul. But I cannot listen now To the wild, the dreadful sound; Sad I see the forest bow, Mournful mark its groans around. Fanciful I seem to hear Ocean roaring in the storm: And behold the bark appear, Which contains a Brother's form. Hope had pictur'd scenes of joy When he reach'd his native shore— Should the tempest these destroy! —Winds, in pity blow no more. |