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Sigourney, L. H. (Lydia Howard), 1791-1865 [1848], Water-drops (Robert Carter, New York) [word count] [eaf353]. To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
'Twas a wild night.— November's storm was out Upon the murky hills, and at its stroke The naked forest groaned. 'Twas a wild night— Yet mid the conflict of the howling winds, The mother's quick ear caught another sound, Faint though it was,—for when was love, like hers, Deaf to its wailing child! With flying steps She sought a distant chamber. There her son, Roused by the thunder of the elements From his sweet dream, inquir'd, with pallid cheek, O'er which his shining curls dishevell'd swept, The meaning of such tumult. So she placed Her lamp upon the table, and sate down Beside his little bed. “That sound you hear, Like a hoarse roaring, is the swollen brook Beating against the stones. For sudden rains Have raised it brimming to its slender bridge,—
And had the violets that you love so well Not hidden from the frost, they'd all been drown'd With their young baby buds.— And then that knock Against the rattling casement, that is sure The stiff old cedar, frightened at the storm, Who spreads his green hands o'er the window panes, As if to ask for help. Those whistling tones,— Half cry, half tune,—are from some wandering blast That sweeps our chimney, and its funnel tall Maketh an organ pipe.” “Oh, mother dear! Waking so suddenly, I scarce could think What this great uproar meant. But well I know God rules the storm.” “Thou dost remember right Thy Sunday lesson, and apply it well. But here, while in thy nicely-curtained crib With downy pillows thou art nestled warm, Like a young birdling, still bethink thee, boy, Of the poor traveller 'neath the chilling rain; And of the sailor on the slippery mast, And of the wrecking ship amid the waves; And thank our Bounteous Father in your prayer.” “Mother, I heard the story of a man, One, who was cruel to his helpless child, And drove his wife out in the wintry cold,—
They said it was the wine and SPIRIT STORM Made him so bad. Mother, what storm was that?” “The storm that may be kindled in ourselves, My little son, by strong and evil drinks; Which wake a wilder tempest in the breast Than that which troubleth nature. Then the son Respecteth not his parents,—nor the wife Loveth her little ones. And men forget The fear of God, and do such deeds as tears Can never wash away.— The glorious sun Will shine again as bright as if the storm Had never been, and thou, perchance, may'st see The arch of radiant colors throw its tint Upon the passing cloud. But that dark storm Of fearful passions, hath no blessed bow Of promise for the soul.” “I will not be So wicked, mother, as to drink what makes Such tempests in the bosom.—Mother, dear! I never will.” And then he pressed his lip, Sobbing with earnestness, upon her cheek, While tenderly she said,—
“Keep thou this pledge, Oh true, and tender heart! And when the days Of manhood come, and thou art tempted sore, Still gird thy promise to a faithful breast, And hold thy footing firm. So shalt thou bless, Even in such dialect as angels use, Thy mother's visit, and this midnight storm.”
Sigourney, L. H. (Lydia Howard), 1791-1865 [1848], Water-drops (Robert Carter, New York) [word count] [eaf353]. |