Stanzas Composed During a Thunderstorm.H

Chill and mirk is the nightly blast,Where Pindus' mountains rise,And angry clouds are pouring fastThe vengeance of the skies.

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,And lightnings, as they play,But show where rocks our path have crost,Or gild the torrent's spray.

Is yon a cot I saw, though low?When lightning broke the gloom--How welcome were its shade!--ah, no!'Tis but a Turkish tomb.

Through sounds of foaming waterfalls,I hear a voice exclaim--My way-worn countryman, who callsOn distant England's name.

A shot is fired--by foe or friend?Another--'tis to tellThe mountain-peasants to descend,And lead us where they dwell.

Oh! who in such a night will dareTo tempt the wilderness?And who 'mid thunder-peals can hearOur signal of distress?

And who that heard our shouts would riseTo try the dubious road?Nor rather deem from nightly criesThat outlaws were abroad.

Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!More fiercely pours the storm!Yet here one thought has still the powerTo keep my bosom warm.

While wandering through each broken path,O'er brake and craggy brow;While elements exhaust their wrath,Sweet Florence, where art thou?

Not on the sea, not on the sea--Thy bark hath long been gone:Oh, may the storm that pours on me,Bow down my head alone!

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,When last I pressed thy lip;And long ere now, with foaming shock,Impelled thy gallant ship.

Now thou art safe; nay, long ere nowHast trod the shore of Spain;'Twere hard if aught so fair as thouShould linger on the main.

And since I now remember theeIn darkness and in dread,As in those hours of revelryWhich Mirth and Music sped;

Do thou, amid the fair white walls,If Cadiz yet be free,At times from out her latticed hallsLook o'er the dark blue sea;

Then think upon Calypso's isles,Endeared by days gone by;To others give a thousand smiles,To me a single sigh.

And when the admiring circle markThe paleness of thy face,A half-formed tear, a transient sparkOf melancholy grace,

Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shunSome coxcomb's raillery;Nor own for once thou thought'st on one,Who ever thinks on thee.

Though smile and sigh alike are vain,When severed hearts repine,My spirit flies o'er Mount and Main,And mourns in search of thine.