THE STORM.

Off fair Nahant the gulls are sweeping low, And waves beat wild against the rugged wall By yonder point. Afar, twin schooners crawl Close reefed; they well may shun the ruddy glow That climbs the West, but boldly face the foe. From boat to boat resounds a warning call As shore and ocean shiver 'neath a pall Flame lit. When, tempest-tortured, to and fro We flee before the gale, while lances flash From passion-freighted clouds; to hope we cling, Though thought runs riot. Storm battalions clash! Can sail survive? Ay, scorn the cruel sting! One effort more, just one more fearless dash— And white-browed breakers with rejoicings ring.