Poems Sigourney 1827/A Thunder Storm, while Travelling

by Lydia Sigourney

A THUNDER STORM, WHILE TRAVELLING.

With what rude drapery Nature robes her form
Here in her sports! how wild! how picturesque!—
How beautiful!—The aspiring rugged cliffs
Rear their brown heads, now bare, and now involved

In clustering foliage. Verdant girdles bind
The hillocks rock-emboss'd,—while here and there,
The white cascade, half curtain'd, leaps to join
The expecting streamlet.—Here the silent sage
Might ruminate,—the anchorite obtain
A favourite cell,—or the meek christian view
Him smile, who ever in his works is found
By those who search aright.—
                                       —O'er the expanse
Of glittering waters glides the snowy sail;—
The lilliputian boat by infants mann'd,
Steers amid fairy islets, circles round
The indented shore,—and in a tiny bay
Makes its safe harbour.—Up in boldness springs
A steep promontory,—the pure, waveless stream
Circles its base, while its indignant brow
Frowns through a helmet of deep forest green,
Nodding in lofty plumes.—But as we gaze
An unexpected gloom pervades the sky
Of summer's beauty.—From the wat'ry glass
Gleam strong reflections of the warrior clouds
Rushing to battle. The black tempest lifts
Its mighty banner.—Prompt with missile shafts,
Red lightning threatens,—awful thunders roar,
And in wild deluge falls the hasty rain.—
Yet, in the kindlings of this fearful wrath
Nature is graceful still.
                                      —She may not blot
The impress of her Maker,—and the heart
That loves him,—loves the tablet he hath traced
Even on the hostile cloud.—

                                   —Fair, rural scene,
Wilt thou not smile once more?—No, darker throngs
Prolong the fierce encounter in the skies,
And heaven's gate trembles.—But thou soon shalt drink
The sun-beam,—and yon elemental war
Leave not a trace of sorrow.—Is it thus
With man's contentions?—Ask the carnaged field,
The writhing form,—the widow's lonely heart.—
—Methinks this summer scenery, in its garb
Of brief adversity, admonishes
The musing mind.—Meekly it shadows forth
The landscape of our pilgrimage.—Rough blasts
Scatter our foliage, crush our cherish'd flowers,
And hollow thunders wake our bosom'd joys
To sudden flight.—But then through parting clouds
The sun of Mercy beams, leading the eye
Upward, and by a Father's discipline
Instructing the sad heart.

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