Oh nature! though the blast is yelling,
Loud roaring through the bending tree,
There's sorrow in man's darksome dwelling,
There's rapture still with thee!
I gaze upon the clouds wind-driven,
The white storm-crested deep;
My heart with human cares is riven—
O'er these—I cannot weep.
'Tis not the rush of wave or wind
That wakes my anxious fears,
That presses on my troubled mind,
And fills my eyes with tears;
I feel the icy breath of sorrow
My ardent spirit chill,
The dark—dark presage of the morrow,
The sense of coming ill.
I hear the mighty billows rave;
There's music in their roar,
When strong in wrath the wind-lashed wave
Springs on the groaning shore;
A solemn pleasure in the tone
That shakes the lonely woods,
As winter mounts his icy throne
'Mid storms and wasting floods.
The trumpet of the angry blast
Peals loud o'er earth and main;
The elemental strife is past,
The heavens are bright again.
And shall I doubt the healing power
Of Him who lives to save,
Who in this dark appalling hour
Can silence wind and wave?
Almighty Ruler of the storm!
One beam of grace display,
And the fierce tempests that deform
My soul, shall pass away.