Constitutional Whig

[From the Boston Statesman.]

THE SPIRIT OF THE WIND.

Thou actor perfect in all tragic sound!
Triumph, mighty poet, come to phrensy bold!
Chief, vain less spirit: well may'st thou
On my harp of power sweep lightly now,
Since not a cloud of breath has driven
Along the calm and starry heaven;—
And quiet moon-shine pale and chill
Is slumbering now on heath and hill.

Wild spirit of the chainless breeze!
Thy course is on the trackless seas;
Thou startest from their treacherous sleep
The surges of the mighty deep;
And bendest from thy clouded throne
To smile on ruin, all thy own.

In peace or wrath thou visitest
The desert's dark and sterile breast;—
The mountain eagle's cold abode,
Where mortal foot hath never trod:
And e'en the forest owns thy sway,
Whose oaks with age alone decay.

Unrivalled minstrel, soft and low,
On nature's harp thou breathest now;
No minstrel steals thy music on the ear,
A sound that love itself might hear—
A melody, in mercy given,
To lift the lowly thought to Heaven.

Love thy music, harper wild!
I've joy'd it from a very child,
Whether as now, its cadence stole
Like angel whisperings on my soul;
Or roused to murmurs wild and strong,
The tempest bore its tones along.

Thou'rt mighty—but what might was lent
Which wakes to sound thy element;
The overruling power that rides
The strong wing'd hurricane, and guides
The tempests on the chainless sea:
That power, alone, commission'd thee.