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.