Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse/The Storm at Midnight

by Lydia Sigourney

THE STORM AT MIDNIGHT.

ROVING spirit—rushing blast,
Whither dost thou speed so fast?
Hurling from night's ebon car,
The spear of elemental war?
Cams't thou from the secret cell,
Where the prison'd whirlwinds dwell?
Hast thou seen the awful court,
Where the armed thunders sport?
Where the deafning tempest sings,
Where the lightning whets its stings?

Didst thou there obtain thine hour
Of wild and temporary pow'r?
Gain the strength that wraps thy breast?
Win the cloud that forms thy crest?
Beg to wield the mighty scourge,
To stir the main—and lash the surge,
And wake the waves whose white heads rest
Lightly on old Ocean's breast?

Speed'st thou now to rouse the gale,
That rends the white and shivering sail?
Speed'st thou now to break the sleep,
Of those that ride the foaming deep?
To shriek like ghosts to those that roam,
"Thou ne'er shalt view thy distant home."

Then go, thou angry tempest—go,
Speed thee on thy task of woe,
Traverse earth from pole to pole,
Crush the form—but save the soul.

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