A Scene on the Banks of the Hudson

Cool shades and dews are round my way,And silence of the early day;Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed,Glitters the mighty Hudson spread,Unrippled, save by drops that fallFrom shrubs that fringe his mountain wall;And o'er the clear still water swellsThe music of the Sabbath bells.

All, save this little nook of landCircled with trees, on which I stand;All, save that line of hills which lieSuspended in the mimic sky--Seems a blue void, above, below,Through which the white clouds come and go,And from the green world's farthest steepI gaze into the airy deep.

Loveliest of lovely things are they,On earth, that soonest pass away.The rose that lives its little hourIs prized beyond the sculptured flower.Even love, long tried and cherished long,Becomes more tender and more strong,At thought of that insatiate graveFrom which its yearnings cannot save.

River! in this still hour thou hastToo much of heaven on earth to last;Nor long may thy still waters lie,An image of the glorious sky.Thy fate and mine are not repose,And ere another evening close,Thou to thy tides shalt turn again,And I to seek the crowd of men.

Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh,I know thy breath in the burning sky!And I wait, with a thrill in every vein,For the coming of the hurricane!

And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales,Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails;Silent and slow, and terribly strong,The mighty shadow is borne along,Like the dark eternity to come;While the world below, dismayed and dumb,Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphereLooks up at its gloomy folds with fear.

They darken fast; and the golden blazeOf the sun is quenched in the lurid haze,And he sends through the shade a funeral ray--A glare that is neither night nor day,A beam that touches, with hues of death,The clouds above and the earth beneath.To its covert glides the silent bird,While the hurricane's distant voice is heard,Uplifted among the mountains round,And the forests hear and answer the sound.

He is come! he is come! do ye not beholdHis ample robes on the wind unrolled?Giant of air! we bid thee hail!--How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale;How his huge and writhing arms are bent,To clasp the zone of the firmament,And fold at length, in their dark embrace,From mountain to mountain the visible space.

Darker--still darker! the whirlwinds bearThe dust of the plains to the middle air:And hark to the crashing, long and loud,Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud!You may trace its path by the flashes that startFrom the rapid wheels where'er they dart,As the fire-bolts leap to the world below,And flood the skies with a lurid glow.

What roar is that?--'tis the rain that breaksIn torrents away from the airy lakes,Heavily poured on the shuddering ground,And shedding a nameless horror round.Ah! well known woods, and mountains, and skies,With the very clouds!--ye are lost to my eyes.I seek ye vainly, and see in your placeThe shadowy tempest that sweeps through space,A whirling ocean that fills the wallOf the crystal heaven, and buries all.And I, cut off from the world, remainAlone with the terrible hurricane.