Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/254

 THOMAS GREGG. Thomas Gregg was born at Belmont, Belmont county, Ohio, on the fourteenth (lay of December, 1808. He received his education in the district schools of his native county, and in a printing-office at the county town, St. Clairsville. He was apprenticed to Horton J. Howard, printer and publisher of The National Historian. In 1833, Mr. Gregg published and edited, at St. Clairsville, twelve numbers of a monthly magazine, which he called The Literary Cabinet. A spirit of adventure then led him to emigrate to the remote West, and, in 1838, he published, at Montrose, in Wisconsin Territory, The Western Adventurer. Meantime he was a contributor to the Cincinnati Mirror and to The Hesperian. Between 1840 and 1850, he was for several years connected with The Signal, at Warsaw, Illinois, and is now publisher and editor of The Representative, at Hamilton, in that State. SONG OF THE WINDS. THE STORM. I COMK, I come — with power and might, On swiftest pinion, in angry flight ; My form I shroud In the murky cloud. And over the deep In fury I sweep ; I fell the tower, and I rend the oak. That withstood the power of the lightning's stroke, — And man in his boasted strength is weak, When I in my loudest fury speak ; And stream and flood and forest and field To the strength of my might and will must yield : But whence I come, or where I go, 'Tis not for dwellers of earth to know. THE BREEZE. I come, I come — from the far-off land, Wliere the salt spray laves the pebbly strand ; My wings are laden With odors sweet, The fairest forms Of earth to greet ; I swell the sail of the gallant ship. As she proudly skims the surging deep ; And I sing a song of joy and mirth. As I pass along o'er the silent earth ; And stream and flood and foi*est and field Ever to my mild dominion yield : But wdience I come, or where I go, 'Tis not for the sons of earth to know. THE ZEPHYR. I come, I come — from my quiet home On the grassy plain, where the wild-bees roam ; I climb the mountain ; I kiss the fountain ; I cool the bower ; I fan the flower ; And over the plain, and over the deep, My silver wings in silence sweep ; And on the breast of the gentle rill, And on the top of the cloud-capped hill, ( 238 )