THE TEMPEST.
ild beamed the sun’s departing ray,
Low sinking in the rosy west;
Still was the closing hour of day
Sacred to silence, peace, and rest!
When a poor Wanderer, bent with woe,
O’er the moor travelled, sad and slow.
By dire misfortune forced to roam,
He rambled on—he knew not where;
In hopes to find a tranquil home,
To find relief from want and care.
The noonday of his life was past,
And Age his mantle o’er him cast.
He stopped, and, lingering on his road,
Admired the lovely prospect round;
Slowly the lonely heath he trod,
And gazed, in pleasing thought profound!
Enraptured at the enchanting scene,
His bosom heaved with joy serene.
But sudden-lowering clouds arise,
And blackening mists the scene deform;
Terrific darkness veils the skies,
Foreboding an impending storm!
