I am, Sir, &c.
June 6, 1825.
J. S.
THE EAST WIND.
A summer sun in brightness glows,
But, ah! the blighting east wind blows,
And weighs the spirit down!
All smiling is th’ enlivening ray,
That tips with silvery tinge the spray,
O’er ocean’s bosom thrown!
Yet, all inviting though it seems,
And tempts one forth to court its beams
I tremblingly retire:
For I am one who hate and dread
That eastern blast, and oft have fled
Its pestilences dire!
But the young shoots that round me rise
And make me old,—(though still unwise)
Feel no such fear as I
Brimful of joy they venture forth
Wind blowing west, south, east, or north,
If cloudless be the sky!
They tripping lightly o’er the path,
To them yet free from grief or scath,
Press on—and onward still,
With brow unwrinkled yet by care,
With spirit buoyant as the air—
They breathe at freedom’s will.
Where shipwreck’d seamen oft deplore
The loss of all their scanty store,
They rove at ebb of tide
In quest of shells, or various weed,
That, from the bed of ocean freed,
Their anxious search abide.
Proud and elated with their prize,
(All eagerness with sparkling eyes,)
The treasures home are brought
To me, who plunged in gloom the while.
At home have watch’d the sea bird’s guile:—
Or, in a sea of thought,