When ocean-clouds over inland hills
Sweep storming in late autumn brown,
And the sodden valley fills,
And the spire falls crashing in the town,
I must upon my county’s ills-
The tempest bursting from the waste of Time
On the world’s fairest hope linked with man’s foulest crime.

Nature’s dark side is heeded now-
(Ah! optimist-cheer disheartened flown)-
A child may read the moody brow
Of yon black mountain lone.
With shouts the torrents down the gorges go,
And storms are formed behind the storm we feel:
The hemlock shakes in the rafter, the oak in the driving keel.

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