Oh, say not 'tis the March wind! 'tis a fiercer blast that drives
The clouds along the heavens, 'tis a feller sweep that rives
The image of the sun from man; a scowling tempest hurls
Our world into a chaos, and still it whirls and whirls.
It is the Boreal blast of sin, else all were meek and calm,
And Creation would be singing still its old primeval psalm.
Woe for the leaf of human life! it flutters in the sere,
And what avails its dance in air, with dust and down-come near?
That airy dance, what signifies the madness that inspires?
The king, the clown, alike is borne along, alike expires.
Come let us try another weird--the tempest let us chain;
A bridle for the passions ho! for giant pride a rein!
Thus quelleth grace the master-craft that was the cause of all
The ruin that befell us in the whirlwind of the Fall.