O'er startled realms shall lowering fly,
A type of me, till time is told.
The storm—a thing of weal and woe,
Of life and death, of peace and power—
That lays the giant forest low,
Yet cheers the bent grass with its shower—
That, in its trampled pathway leaves,
The uptorn roots to bud anew,
And where the past o'er ruin grieves,
Bids fresher beauty spring to view:—