What hope for the sparrow,
Or nest of the bird!
Where fords were once narrow,
What hope for the herd!
When arrow on arrow
He empties the third
Of his quiver against their alarm—
Descend, O Spirit of Storm!
You may measure the might that he brings
By the welkin that echoes his felloes;
By the fork of the lightning,—that yellows
The darkness,—the hammer he swings.
The cattle are scattered
And low from the shore;
The roses are shattered
That grew at the door;
The swallows look tattered,
And twitter and soar,
Made glad with the force of his form—
Rejoice, O Spirit of Storm!
On levels that sunder
The roar of the main
He ploughs with the thunder,
And sows with the rain:
No sunbeam shall blunder
Through black till the plain
Is planted with storm as a farm—
Sweep on, O Spirit of Storm!
His path is the abysm, which heaps
The wild wind behind him, and hovers
A whirlwind before, that uncovers
The hurricane-lair where he sleeps.
At night,—through the wrestle
Of winds that contend,—
To guard the good vessel
From rocks that would rend,
Like a star let it nestle,
The light, to defend
The seaman and his from all harm—
From thee, O Spirit of Storm!
ON THE JELLICO SPUR OF THE CUMBERLANDS
To ...
You remember how the mist,
When we climbed to Devil’s Den,
Pearl-white in the mountain glen,
And above us, amethyst,