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420 LOUISA S. M'CORD.

And when with snows our walks are spread,
From Milton's deathless page
I'll read the visions seraphs brought
To cheer his sightless age:
I'll read of pageant's proud which flash'd
Through Homer's dawnless night,
And blind old Ossian's fancies fraught
With shadowy forms of might;
And while my voice is sweet to you,
And veil'd my form and face,
I'll smile that nature holds from me
Her gifts of bloom and grace;
For the vain world heeds not the one
That lacks such things of pride,
And will not bring its tempting wiles
To lure me from your side!

LOUISA S. M'CORD,

The daughter of Judge Langdon Cheves, is a native of Charleston, South Carolina. She was principally educated at Philadelphia, during her father's residence in that city as president of the United States' Bank. She is now the wife of David J. M'Cord, Esq., and resides on her plantation in St. Matthew's parish, near Fort Motte, (of revolutionary memory,) South Carolina. Her talents and attainments are of a superior order; her mind, by nature strong, has been richly cultivated by extensive reading of the best authors. A volume of her poems appeared in the early part of the present year (1848), under the title of My Dreams. She has a vivid imagination and warm feeling, but they are not well disciplined by good taste and correct judgment.

LOUISA S. M'CORD. 421

SPIRIT OF THE STORM.

WILD spirit of the storm, who rid'st the blast,
And in the growling thunder speak'st thy rage,
Would I could soar with thee!
Untamed, unfetter'd, roaming through the vast
Expanse of universe from age to age,
'Tis thine, thine! to be free!
'Tis mine, to lie, and grovel in the dust,
And wonder at thy might,
And in admiring amazement lost,
To tremble at the terrors of thy fearful night.

But no! with thee my spirit longs to rise,
It doth not tremble.—Genius of the storm!
Thou art but tameless, wild,
As I would be, could I enfranchise
My chain'd being,—cast off the grovelling worm—
Nature's untamed storm-child,
With thee the whirlwind in its might I'd ride,
Revel in the howling blast,
Play with the fork'd lightnings, and deride
The timorous world, by thee with weary fears harass'd.

Borne on the hurricane's extended wing,
And in the whirlwind sweeping over earth—
Then in the billowy deep,
To wake the voice of Discord, mastering
The ocean's stillness, to riot giving birth
In those still caves, where sleep
In silent majesty is wont to reign,
Would I could roam with thee!
The throbbing wish bounds in my every vein,
Wild spirit of the storm! like thee, I would be free.

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 21:16:00 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 21:30:50