The Poetical Writings of Fitz-Greene Halleck/The Tempest
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!
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.
At length, worn down with toil and cold,
The Wanderer sunk upon the heath;
And ere the shepherd loosed his fold,
His weary eyes were closed in death.
The last, the dreaded pang is o’er,
And low he lies, to rise no more!
Such is Life’s journey—’tis a scene
Where joy and grief alternate reign;
Where mixed emotions intervene,
Of hope and fear, of bliss and pain;
Where sunbeams dart, and tempests rage,
In every season, every age.
As through this wilderness we roam,
Fond Hope may wear her sweetest smile,
And tell of happier days to come,
The wearied bosom to beguile;
But vanished is her soothing power,
In disappointment’s languid hour.
Then happiest he whose hopes sublime
Are centred in the joys of heaven;
Calmly adown the stream of time
His peaceful bark shall then be driven.
Firm as the adamantine rock,
His heart shall brave “Misfortune’s rudest shock.”
1804.