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The traveller sees the danger near,
And shuddering stands, appalled with fear!

Now raged the bleak wind o’er the plain,
The billows bounded on the shore;
Swift fell the cold and pelting rain,
And loud the storm began to roar.
The unhappy wanderer mourned his fate—
He mourned—but ah! alas! too late.

Wild was the prospect, far and wide,
And all was dreadful, dark, and drear;
No shepherd’s sheep-pent fold he spied,
No friendly roof or shelter near;
While fiercer still the tempest grew,
As o’er the lonely heath it flew.

Yet Hope still cheered him on his way:
“Night soon will fly with its dark shade;
Aurora soon will ope the day,
And sweep the dew-drops down the glade.
Soon will the fearful storm be o’er,
And soon you’ll see the cottage door.”

But ah! delusive Hope! how vain
Are all thy fond, enrapturing dreams;
Loud howled the raging wind, the rain
Still poured in swift-descending streams.
Before the blast the forest yields,
And shivered branches strew the fields.