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Rh Scarce visible, but watch’d as anxiously As would a mother watch the first faint tinge Of health revisiting her child's wan cheek, Where every thought and hope had long time clung— Light of the voyage drear—their native shore. A sound breaks the still silence, and a cloud Is gathering on the air: that sound is not The tumult of the storm; and the dark roll Of yon black volume, rising streak'd with fire, Is not the tempest's dwelling;—'tis the breath, The fiery breath of war; and man has dar'd Profane the quiet of an hour like this! Battle ! destruction!—does the world contain One spot, whereon your baneful taint is not?— A thicker darkness gathers; 'tis not now Alone the dense smoke curling; hark, yon roll! Echoing the cannon, as in mockery. The winds have burst their slumber, and are risen,