I hurried me on in the tempest's black car,
With the thunder to herald my coming afar;
I stayed not, nor stopped till I reached the broad main,
Where I lashed the bright waves till they maddened with pain.
I call to the clouds; at my voice they arise,
And ope, at my bidding, the gates of the skies.
No law have I but to work my will;
And where is the power that can bid me "Be still?"
LUCIA C. PENDLETON.
21.