Along the road the mimic whirlwind runs,
And with its unseen fingers lifts the dust;
The town-returning wagon faster moves,
And down the hill, and o’er the sandy plain,
The village Jehu makes the coach-wheel spin;
And while the plover whistles on the moor,
The stage-horn breaks upon the startled ear.
But, hark! the storm-drum beats the tempest charge;
The groaning forest feels its rushing breath,
And bends its yellow head to let it pass;