Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXI, No. 3, September 1842Various
General
Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXI, No. 3, September 1842
Various
Literature -- Periodicals; Literature, Modern -- 19th century -- Periodicals
Music, soft as angels hear,
O’er the quiet waters came,
And the voice, that met her ear,
Warbled one beloved name.
By her lattice, hushed she stood
In a leaning attitude.
Nothing lovelier to behold
Ever greeted mortal eyes—
Saintly pictures, famed of old,
Gems of genius, set in gold,
Matchless forms in shape and size!
Nearer now the strain is heard—
Starts she, like a frightened bird;
’Tis for her the song is sung,
And for her, across the sea,
Waves the signal merrily,
From her lover’s pinnace flung!
’Tis the hour, the promised hour,
She should leave her maiden bower.
. . . . . . . .
She has donned her rich attire,
She has left her father’s palace—
Has love so quenched her spirit’s fire?
Is this the haughty Lady Alice?
She, whose looks of high disdain
Banished nobles from her train?
See, adown the marble stairs,
To the wave, the lady steal;
Nothing now for pride she cares—
Love has taught her heart to feel.
Idly rocks the slender mast
O’er the silver billows now,
But anon the foam will cast
Jewels from the speeding prow;
Soon, from vain pursuit afar,
Softly will that pinnace glide,
And the evening’s golden star
Smile upon a happy bride.
* * * * *
THE SUNSET STORM.
BY RUFUS W. GRISWOLD.
The summer sun has sunk to rest
Below the green-clad hills,
And through the skies, careering fast,
The storm-cloud rides upon the blast,
And now the rain distills!
The flash we see, the peal we hear,
With winds blent in their wild career,
Till pains the ear.
It is the voice of the Storm King
Riding upon the Lightning’s wing,
Leading his bannered hosts across the darkened sky,
And drenching with his floods the sterile lands and dry.
The wild beasts to their covers fly,
The night birds flee from heaven,
The dense black clouds that veil the sky,
Darkening the vast expanse on high,
By streaming fires are riven.
Again the tempest’s thunder tone,
The sounds from forests overthrown,
Like trumpets blown
Deep in the bosom of the storm,
Proclaim His presence, in its form,
Who doth the sceptre of the concave hold,
Who freed the winds, and the vast clouds unrolled.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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