THE TEMPEST IS RAGING.
Air—"He 's dear to me, though far frae me."
The tempest is raging
And rending the shrouds;
The ocean is waging
A war with the clouds;
The cordage is breaking,
The canvas is torn,
The timbers are creaking—
The seamen forlorn.
The water is gushing
Through hatches and seams;
'Tis roaring and rushing
O'er keelson and beams;
And nought save the lightning
On mainmast or boom,
At intervals brightening
The palpable gloom.
Though horrors beset me,
And hurricanes howl,
I may not forget thee,
Beloved of my soul!
Though soon I must perish
In ocean beneath,
Thine image I 'll cherish,
Adored one! in death.
THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.[40]
Talk not of temples—there is one
Built without hands, to mankind given;
Its lamps are the meridian sun,
And all the stars of heaven;
Its walls are the cerulean sky,
Its floor the earth so green and fair;
The dome is vast immensity—
All nature worships there!
The Alps array'd in stainless snow,
The Andean ranges yet untrod,
At sunrise and at sunset glow
Like altar-fires to God.
A thousand fierce volcanoes blaze,
As if with hallow'd victims rare;
And thunder lifts its voice in praise—
All nature worships there!
The ocean heaves resistlessly,
And pours his glittering treasure forth;
His waves—the priesthood of the sea—
Kneel on the shell-gemm'd earth,
And there emit a hollow sound,
As if they murmur'd praise and prayer;
On every side 'tis holy ground—
All nature worships there!