Classic Poem

Song of the Second Bard .

The winds aloft, the coming blast —
Sweeps o'er the desert plain;
The lurid clouds, the sky o'ercast,
Descend, in pouring rain.
From yon glum mountain shrieks the spright,
His shrieks astound the gale!
The woods, that fringed, the airy height
Fall thundering down the vale.
The windows flap: the torrents roar,
To pass the pilgrim tries,
The faithless ford, that tempts him o'er
Gives way, — he shrieks, and dies.
Before the driving storm, the horse
Sweeps — from the mountain's brow:
The wary goat, with slanting course
Leads on the lowing cow,
They tremble, as they steal along,
And dread the swelling tide;
The current dashing loud, and strong
The mould'ring bank beside.
The hunter, starting from repose
Looks round the darksome room!
The fire he wakes, the chimney glows,
And cheers the midnight gloom;
His wet dogs smoke around his feet;
He stuffs his chinky wall:
Two mountain streams, that near him meet —
In roaring torrents fall.

Sad, on the side of yon grey hill,
The shepherd wails his flock;
The tree resounds, the swelling rill
Falls dashing down the rock:
'Tis dark, and dismal all around,
In vain he'd further roam;
Till rising moon-beams gild the ground,
To light the wanderer home.

Ghosts, on the darkling tempest ride,
Borne on the blast along;
And when the howling squalls subside,
Sweet breathes the heav'nly song.

And now the pouring rain is past,
But still the dry wind blows;
The driving torrent, meets the blast —
And backward, bellowing flows:
The windows slap, the discord shrill
Confounds the distant roar;
The cold-drops from the roof distill
And moisten all the floor.

Again, the stars relume the sky,
But clouds their beams deform;
The West is gloomy, to the eye,
And dark the gathering storm:
The trembling lustres die away,
No lingering gleam of light,
Now marks the sphere with glimmering ray:
Receive me from the night.