When ocean-clouds over inland hills
Sweep storming in late autumn brown,
And horror the sodden valley fills,
And the spire falls crashing in the town,
I muse upon my countrys ills
The tempest bursting from the waste of Time
On the worlds fairest hope linked with mans foulest crime.
Natures dark side is heeded now
(Ah! optimist-cheer disheartened flown)
A child may read the moody brow
Of yon black mountain lone.
With shouts the torrents down the gorges go,
And storms are formed behind the storm we feel:
The hemlock shakes in the rafter, the oak in the driving keel.