IF, going forth in the snow and the hail,

In the wind and the rain,

On the desolate hills, in the face of the gale,

I could meet thee again;

Ah! with what rapture my bosom would beat

And my steps onward pass,

With a smile on my lip, while the thin driving sleet

Soaked through the cold grass!

But never-the hour can never have birth

That would gladden me thus;

There are meetings, and greetings, and welcomes on earth, But no more for us!

No more shalt thou comfort the long dreary night,

Or the brief bitter day;

When my heart feels the pang of a serpent's keen bite

In the words others say;

No more shall thy letters come in with the morn,

Making sunshine for hours,

With thoughts of an innocent tenderness born,
Or a spray of dried flowers!

174

IN THE STORM.

With praises whose love used to cheer and to bless,
Running through every line;

And fond closing words that felt like a caress
Which thy soul gave to mine.

Many missives lie heaped, to be read in their turn.

Oh! tender and true,

In the blank of that hour how wildly I yearn
For the writing I knew!

Unmeaning and vapid, or bitter, the words

Which I blot with vain tears:

Thy pity no longer the solace affords
Which it gave in past years.

I shall see thee no more, till life's trial shall cease,
Gliding into my room,

With thy sweet eyes so full of the spirit of peace,
Soothing anger and gloom.

I shall hear thee no more, with that low gentle voice
Whose divine music made,

Like the harp of young David, the spirit rejoice
That was crushed and betrayed.

I fling wide my casement: forth, forth I would roam,
And I mock at the storm

As it beats, sweeping inward, to visit a home
All living and warm.

The grey clouds are scudding in vaporous shrouds
O'er a sky dark as lead:

I think of the tombs that are planted in crowds—
Pale homes of the dead!

IN THE STORM.

I think, does the same wind that sweeps by me now,
As it shivers and moans,

Thrill the pools in that graveyard, of half-melted snow,
By the moss-dripping stones?

And I cry in my anguish, "Appear! as in life,—

And my soul shall not fear:

Pass over this sea of my trouble and strife!"
But the winds only, hear.

I turn from the casement, and helplessly stare
At the light of my lamp;

The drift of the sleet on my arms and my hair
Lieth chilly and damp.

The rush of the wild river rolling along

Is loud in my ear

'The wind through the beech-trees is heavy and strong, But that sound cometh clear.

I know that dark river-its waters sweep down,

Be the day ne'er so bright,

175

With the deep changeless hues of the Cairngorm's brown, Though its foam-flakes are white.

I know that dark river-it swells and it swirls

Past the hindering bridge;

And the trees topple down as the branches it hurls
Beat the bank's broken ridge.

The turbulent waters drive on in their force

Like the thoughts in my breast

But the stones lying deep in the torrent's wild cours
Say "Under, is rest!".

176

IN THE STORM.

Under-deep under those arches' wide girth,

Where nothing is stirred,

And the sound of Life's whirlwinds that traverse the earth Can never be heard!

Under-deep under. But lo! while I dream,

From a vanishing cloud

The pale moon looks forth, with her strange tranquil gleam, Like a ghost in its shroud.

Her white smile the brown rolling river hath kissed;
And I lift my sad eyes

To see her sail past through a rift in the mist

That is veiling the skies.

And I think of the rest, in the dark waters near,

To its stony bed given;

And I think of that light shining gentle and clear;—
There is rest, too, in Heaven!

Till, the wild storm subsiding, forth comes by the moon
One uprising star:

Is there rest? but the earth seems so near, as I swoon-
And the Heavens so far!

Caroline Norton.

AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.

177

AMERICA TO GREAT BRITAIN.

ALL hail! thou noble land,

Our fathers' native soil!
O stretch thy mighty hand,
Gigantic grown by toil,

O'er the vast Atlantic wave to our shore;
For thou, with magic might,
Canst reach to where the light
Of Phoebus travels bright
The world o'er.

The genius of our clime,

From his pine-embattled steep,
Shall hail the great sublime;

While the Tritons of the deep

With their conchs the kindred league shall proclaim;
Then let the world combine-
O'er the main our naval line,
Like the milky-way shall shine,
Bright in fame!

Though ages long have passed
Since our fathers left their home,
Their pilot in the blast,

O'er untravelled seas to roam,-
Yet lives the blood of England in our veins!
And shall we not proclaim

That blood of honest fame,

Which no tyranny can tame
By its chains?

Modern Poets.

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