With bright-hued hopes upon my vision shine?
88. NATIONAL CONVULSIONS, 1849.
The tempest rages through the earth around,
Tossing the ocean into mountain waves:
Thrones shake and totter, as the storm-wind raves,
And mightiest empires tremble at the sound:
Man has no structure on the solid ground,
Which bides the tumult, or its fury braves: