Page:Poems of Sentiment and Imagination.djvu/143

Rh And being thus, still sneers upon his fellow,

And taunts him with his own infirmities;

Till life becomes a scene of wild turmoil,

Of vain, tumultuous striving to become

Masters of others' passions—while our own

Are burning out our hearts.

O what a scene!

The tempest hath begun its terrible play,

And sky, and earth, and ocean are at strife,

With winds, and surge, and thunders, discoursing

With angry voices their hoarse-throated rage!

How the forked lightnings rend the sable sky!

Revealing for an instant the wild sight

Of mountain billows and dark, shapeless rocks;

Showing me where I stand—how near to death—

A rude and pitiless death; yet I stir not,

Nor feel a thrill of fear. I almost wish

Some wave, more daring than the rest, would reach

My perilous footing, bearing me from hence,

To die among its fellows. I would sooner

Die in a scene like this, of nature's strife,

Than living wearily a joyless life,

At last to perish in the savage war

Of jarring human passions. I can hear

The screaming of the sea-gull; well he loves

A time like this; that his sharp voice may be

Distinguished even above the howling blasts

And heavy surgings of the heaving sea.

I, like him, have loved such tempest hours—

But with a different passion: I can feel

The wild sublimity—can steep my soul

In the stern grandeur of this lonely place,

With darkness, waves, and thunder, to impress

Its power upon my spirit; not like him,

Striving to out-noise the tempest. Vain ambition!

Yet many, O how many, strive for this,

To be the loudest in the stormy crowd