Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/A Storm

A Storm.

The sun went down in beauty; but the eyesOf ancient seamen trembled, when they sawA small black ominous spot far in the distance:—It spread, and spread—larger and dark—and cameO'ershadowing the skies the ocean rose;The gathering waves grew large, and broke in hoarseAnd hollow sounds;—the mighty winds awoke,And screamed and whistled through the cordage birds,That seemed to have no home, flocked there in terror,And sat with quivering plumage on the mast;Flashes were seen, and distant sounds were heard—Presages of a storm.—

The sun went down in beauty—but the skiesWere wildly changed.—It was a dreadful night;No moon was seen, in all the heavens, to aidOr cheer the lone and sea-beat mariner;—Planet nor guiding star broke through the gloom;—But the blue lightnings glared along the waters,As if the Fiend had fired his torch to light Some wretches to their graves.—The tempest-windsRaving came next, and in deep hollow sounds—Like those the spirits of the dead do useWhen they would speak their evil prophecies—Muttered of death to come. Then came the thunder,Deepening and crashing as 'twould rend the world;Or, as the Deity passed aloft in angerAnd spoke to man—despair! The ship was tossed,And now stood poised upon the curling billows,And now 'midst deep and watery chasms—that yawnedAs 'twere in hunger—sank. Behind there cameMountains of moving water,—with a rushAnd sound of gathering power, that did appalThe heart to look on;—terrible cries were heard—Some of intemperate, dark, and dissolute joy—Music and horrid mirth—but unalliedTo joy;—and madness might be heard amidstThe pauses of the storm—and when the glareWas strong, rude savage men were seen to danceIn frantic exultation on the deck,Though all was hopeless. Hark! the ship has struck,And the forked lightning seeks the arsenal!—'Tis fired—and mirth and madness are no more!'Midst columned smoke, deep red, the fragments flyIn fierce confusion—splinters and scorched limbs,And burning masts, and showers of gold,—torn fromThe heart that hugged it even till death. Thus dothSicilian Etna in her angry moods,Or Hecla, 'mid her wilderness of snows,Shoot up its burning entrails, with a soundLouder than e'er the Titans uttered fromTheir subterranean caves, when Jove enchainedThem, daring and rebellious. The black skies,Shocked at the excess of light, returned the soundIn frightful echoes—as if an alarmHad spread through all the elements: then cameA horrid silence—deep—unnatural—likeThe quiet of the grave!