[April, 1861.]
World, art thou 'ware of a storm?
Hark to the ominous sound;
How the far-off gales their battle form,
And the great sea-swells feel ground!
It comes, the Typhoon of Death—
Nearer and nearer it comes!
The horizon thunder of cannon-breath
And the roar of angry drums!
Hurtle, Terror sublime!
Swoop o'er the Land to-day—
So the mist of wrong and crime,
The breath of our Evil Time
Be swept, as by fire, away!
HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL.
* * * * *
IN STATE.
I.
O keeper of the Sacred Key,
And the Great Seal of Destiny.
Whose eye is the blue canopy.
Look down upon the warring world, and tell us what the end will be.
"Lo, through the wintry atmosphere.
On the white bosom of the sphere,
A cluster of five lakes appear;
And all the land looks like a couch, or warrior's shield, or sheeted
bier.