The Dying Storm

I am feeble, pale and weary,

And my wings are nearly furled.

I have caused a scene so dreary,

I am glad to quit the world.

While with bitterness I'm thinking

On the evil I have done,

To my caverns deep I'm sinking

From the coming of the sun.

Oh! the heart of man will sicken

In that pure and holy light,

When he feels the hopes I've stricken

With an everlasting blight!

For, so wildly in my madness

Have I poured abroad my wrath,

I've been changing joy to sadness;

And with ruins strewed my path.

Earth has shuddered at my motion:—

She my power in silence owns;

While the troubled, roaring ocean

O'er my deeds of horror moans.

I have sunk the dearest treasure—

I've destroyed the fairest form:

Sadly have I filled my measure;

And I'm now a dying Storm!

Yet, to man among the living,

With my final gasp and sigh,

I, a solemn caution giving,

Fain would serve him while I die.

Not like me, shall he, descending

Swift to death, from being cease.

He's a spirit!--fleetly tending

To eternal pain or peace!