I am feeble, pale and weary,
And my wings are nearly furled.
I have caused a scene so dreary,
I am glad to quit the world.
While with bitterness I'm thinking
On the evil I have done,
To my caverns deep I'm sinking
From the coming of the sun.
Oh! the heart of man will sicken
In that pure and holy light,
When he feels the hopes I've stricken
With an everlasting blight!
For, so wildly in my madness
Have I poured abroad my wrath,
I've been changing joy to sadness;
And with ruins strewed my path.
Earth has shuddered at my motion:--
She my power in silence owns;
While the troubled, roaring ocean
O'er my deeds of horror moans.
I have sunk the dearest treasure--
I've destroyed the fairest form:
Sadly have I filled my measure;
And I'm now a dying Storm!
Yet, to man among the living,
With my final gasp and sigh,
I, a solemn caution giving,
Fain would serve him while I die.
Not like me, shall he, descending
Swift to death, from being cease.
He's a spirit!--fleetly tending
To eternal pain or peace!
=The Little Traveller=.
I am the tiniest child of earth!
But still, I would like to be known to fame;
Though next to nothing I had my birth,
And lowest of all in my lowly name.
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