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THE ANCESTRESS.
Our ancient avenue of cedar trees,—
How black they look, and with what heavy strength
The giant branches move!—the weary air
Like a deep breath comes from them.—Ah, how dark!
It is the first cloud that has touch'd the moon:—
Her loveliness has conquer'd,—oh, not yet!—
One huge cloud, and another. I could deem
The evil powers did war on high to-night.
And are there such that o'er humanity
Hold influence,—the terrible, the wild,—
Inscrutable as fear,—the ministers
To our unholy passions? These are they
Who dazzle with unrighteous wealth, and make
Our sleep temptation; they who fill its dreams
With passionate strife and guilt, until the mind
Is grown familiar with the sight of blood.
