The Rodney telegraph. (Rodney, Miss.) 1838-1840, 1839-09-25
From the Knickerbocke..
THE WINDS.
by WILLIAM CULLEN aaYAxr.

From the knickerbockes.
THE WINDS.
BY WILLIAM CULLEN aRYxxr.
Ye winds, re unseen currents Of the. mir,
Softly ye played a few brief hours ago;
Ye bore tho murmnring bee; We tossed the hair
Ger maiden cheeks, that took a fresher glow !;
Ye rolled the round white cloud through depths
of blue;
Ye shook from faded flowers the lingering dew /;
Before you the catalpa's blossoms dew,
Light blossoms, dropping on the grass like
snow.
How are We changed! Ye take the cataract's
sound,
Ye take the whirlpool's fury and its might:
The mountain shudders as We sweep the ground
The valley woods lie prone beneath your
fight,
The clouds before you sweep like eagles past;
The homes of men are rocking in your blast;
Ye lift the roofs like autumn leaves, and cast,
Skyward, the whirling fragments out Of sight.
The weary fowls Of heaven make wing in vain,
To Escape your wrath ye seize and dash them
dead.
Against the earth ye drive the roaring rain;
The harvest field becomes rivers bed;
And torrents tumble from the hills around.
Plains turn to lakes, and villages are drowned,
And waiting voices, midst the tempest's sound,
Rise, as the rushing floods close overhead.
Ye dart upon the deep, and straight is heard
A wilder roar, and men grow pale, and pray
Ye fling its waters round you, as bird
filings DER his shivering plumes the fountains
spray.
See! to the breaking mast the sailor clings;
Yc scoop the ocean to its briny springs,
And take the mountain billow on your wings,
And pile the wreck of nayies round the bay.
Why rage yc thuss-no strife for liberty
Has made you mad no tyrant, strong through
fear,
Has chained your pinions, till ye wrenched
them free,
And rushed into the unmeasured atmosphere
For we were born in freedom where ye blow;
Free DER the mighty deep to come and go;
Earth's solemn woods were yours, her wastes oil
Her isles where summer blossoms all the year
o we winds! mightier Power than yours
In chains upon the shore of Europe lies;
The sceptred throng, whose letters he endures,
Watch his mute throes with terror in thei
eyes;
And armed warriors all around him stand,
And, as he struggles, tighten every band,
And lift the spear, with threatening hand,
To pierce the victim, should he strive to rise
Yet oh, when that wronged Spirit of our race,
Shall break, as soon he must, bis long worl
chains,
And leap in freedom from his prison-place,
Lord Of his ancient hills and fruitful plains,
Let him not rise, like these mad winds of air,
To fill the earth with wo, and blot her fair
Unconscious breast with blood from huma
veins.
But may he like the Spring-time come abroad,
Who crumbles winters gives with gent
might,
When in the genial breeze, the breath Of God,
Come spouting up the unsealed springs to light
Flowers start from their dark prisons at his fee
The woods, long dumb, awake to hymnins
And morn and eve, whose glimmerings almo
| meet,
Crowd back to narrow bounds the anciel
| night.
Stoop DER the place of graves, and softly sway
The sishing heritage by the cleaning stone;
That they who near the church-yard willow
stray,
And listen to the deepening gloom, alone,
May think of gentle souls, that passed away
Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown
Sent forth from Heaven among the sons of me-
And gone into the boundless Heaven again.
| YOUTH, MANHOOD, AND OLD AGE.
By cARoLrLE BowLEs.
River! River little River!
Bright you sparkle on your way,
4 Der the yellow PEBBLES dancing,
| Through the 6owers and foliage prancing,
! Like child at play.
d River! River! swelling River!
i On you rush DER rough and smooth
Louder, faster, brawling, leaping
!