Chapter LVIII

Again the night is wild with rain;
Again distracted with the gale:
Upon the hills I hear a wail
Of lamentation and of pain,
As when, on some high burial-place,
Moaning among the windy graves,
The Indian squaws lament the braves,
Who fell in battle for their race.

Another day of storm shall dawn
Within the east; and, darkly lit,
Like one, with brows abstraction-knit,
Absorbed in moody thought, pass on.--
Bear not too hard, is all I ask,
Upon the hearts that toil and yearn,
O day of clouds! but swiftly turn
To sunshine all your frowning mask.