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An April Squall.
By Edward Woodley Bowling
Breathless is the deep blue sky;
Breathless doth the blue sea lie;
And scarcely can my heart believe,
'Neath such a sky, on such a wave,
That Heaven can frown and billows rave,
Or Beauty so divine deceive.
Softly sail we with the tide;
Silently our bark doth glide;
Above our heads no clouds appear:
Only in the West afar
A dark spot, like a baneful star,
Doth herald tempests dark and drear.
And now the wind is heard to sigh;
The waters heave unquietly;
The Heaven above is darkly scowling;
Down with the sail! They come, they come!
Loos'd from the depths of their wintry home,
The wild fiends of the storm are howling.
Hold tight, and tug at the straining oar,
For the wind is rising more and more:
Row like a man through the dashing brine!
Row on! - already the squall is past:
No more the sky is overcast;
Again the sun doth brightly shine.
Oh! higher far is the well-earn'd bliss
Of quiet after a storm like this
Than all the joys of selfish ease:
'Tis thus I would row o'er the sea of Life,
Thus force my way through the roar and strife,
And win repose by toils like these.
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