poems.
147
I will stand in the raving blast:
The hunter from his booth shall hear
When my voice is floating past;
He will love it though he fear,
For sweet to my friends my voice
Shall arise on the stormy gale;
Ye were the friends of her choice,
And long will know Colma's tale.
The hunter from his booth shall hear
When my voice is floating past;
He will love it though he fear,
For sweet to my friends my voice
Shall arise on the stormy gale;
Ye were the friends of her choice,
And long will know Colma's tale.
Note.—That Colma should speak so much when overwhelmed with such excessive grief, seems unnatural; but I have of course, adhered to the original.
THE WATCHER'S PRAYER.
::Hush, gentle winds,
Sweep not so wildly,
Thou hast burst from imprison'd skies;
A strong hand hast sent thee forth
From the dark, the stormy north,
And the lov'd one sleeps not; wilt thou arise?
Sweep not so wildly,
Thou hast burst from imprison'd skies;
A strong hand hast sent thee forth
From the dark, the stormy north,
And the lov'd one sleeps not; wilt thou arise?
Low, low it breathes,—
Voice of the spirit world,
Host thou whisper the lov'd away?
How deep is thy lowest tone,
Thou wakest my loved one;
Hush, hush till the breaking day.
Voice of the spirit world,
Host thou whisper the lov'd away?
How deep is thy lowest tone,
Thou wakest my loved one;
Hush, hush till the breaking day.
