When ocean-clouds over inland hills 
Sweep storming in late autumn brown, 
And horror the sodden valley fills, 
And the spire falls crashing in the town, 
I muse upon my country's ills-- 
The tempest burning 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 dishartened 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 storms we feel: 
The hemlock shakes in the rafter, the oak in the driving keel.