(APRIL, 1861)
World, are thou 'ware of a storm?
Hark to the ominous sound;
How the far-off gales their battle form,
And the great sea-swells feel ground!
It comes, the Typhoon of Death--
Nearer and nearer it comes!
The horizon thunder of cannon-breath
And the roar of angry drums!
Hurtle, Terror sublime!
Swoop o'er the Land to-day--
So the mist of wrong and crime,
The breath of our Evil Time
Be swept, as by fire, away!