Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/578

 562 LOUISE ESTHER VICKROY. [1850-60. THE SUMMER STORM. When the sky's deep blue grew deeper, 5^nd the sickle of the reaper, Swinging midst the ripened wheat-ears, made a pleasant flash and sound, Rose a cloud that soon o'ershaded All the scene, while quickly faded From the landscape all the beauty by the sunshine shed around. Queenly rose and lily saintly First began to waver faintly, And the trembling oak-leaves whispered of the tempest drawing near ; While the hoarse voice of the river Sent through every heart a shiver. For all nature seemed o'erburdened with a wonder and a fear. Then the lightning's vivid flashes. With the thunder's wilder crashes. In a strange, terrific splendor clothed the overarching sky ; Shrank the woodbine in her bower. And the fern bent low and lower. While the vine-leaves clasped each other with a clinging sympathy. Npw the winds with dismal howling. And the heaven's darker scowling, For a while seemed alltoo dreadful for the startled earth to bear; Then, while floods of rain descended. Proudest trees were torn and bended. Till the woods bore fearful tokens how the dread one reveled there. But the storm-clouds' sudden breaking, All the wild-bird anthems waking. Set the summer air to trembling with a sweetly conscious thrill; While the snowy mist up-going. And the sunny light down-flowing, Met and made a rainbow chaplet for the dark brow of the hill. And the sunset on that even Seemed the golden gate of heaven. All so cloudless and so lovely, when the storm had passed away ; So the tempests in our bosoms, Beating down Life's fairest blossoms. Sometimes make our hearts more fitted to receive a heavenly ray. SHADOW-LIGHT. As faint as the ghost of a melody, Or a rose's breath that will not die, Though its petals blighted and withered lie ; Seeming afar like the worlds of light. Yet near as their beams on a soft, clear night, And sweet as the smile of a lost delight. Not bright like the hopes of our childhood's hours, Nor wearing the colors of youth's fresh flowers. Nor the rose-hued tintings of air-built towers ; And never so sad as the memory Of the young heart's buried dreams maybe, But softer and sweeter there comes to me ; There comes — there comes to my spirit now A wordless whisper, and o'er my brow Steals a soft caress, but 1 know not how, Or whence, or why, but I only say That somewhere, somewhere, though far away, "A dear one is dreaming of me to-day." It may be one I have never seen, Or one with whom I have often been. But wide is the ocean that yawns between ; But at last, with the ocean's ebb and flow, That spirit will come or mine will go, We will be together for aye, I know.