THE THUNDER-STORM.
BY L. E. L.
"Fear not, thy God is with thee."
It comes!—the rushing wind has burst
The silence and the weight which nurst
Its gathering strength: deep as the tomb,
One heavy cloud sweeps on in gloom;
A few faint gleams of broken light—
A streak of blue—all else is night!—
Not the soft night of moon and star,
But made by elements at war.
A human step is on the heath—
A child that bears a wild-flower wreath:
Wild o'er the mountains howls the wind;
The morn's fair vale is far behind;
She is alone: her large blue eye
Turns timid to the awful sky;
The innocent, the loved, the young,
To whom the widow's heart has clung;
The dear reminder of the past,
On whom all future hope is cast.
Guarded by all thy mother's tears,
Sweet orphan, shake from thee thy fears;
Tremble to mark God's might above,
Tremble, but cheer thy dread with love!
