OUT IN THE STORM.

Otago Witness, Issue 2242, 18 February 1897, Page 41

OUT IN THE STORM.

Tlif morn hsd beon bright and cloudless, The noontide calm and fair ; But the evening was close and murky, With electric glvarns in the air. I Mt that a storm •was pendingFlying ants caute in by the score. And winged beetles buzzed round the lamp, Falling helplessly on the floor. The wild, shrill cry of the curlew Was even more weird and wild Than the wind wailing fitfully up the gorge, Like the sobs of a chidden child. I sat in my lonely cottage Alone, for my children slept, And, dreading the storm, I iried to read, As my silent vigil 1 kept. My bock v/as Core-Ufa " Arilath," Ann, lured by the thoughts sublime That fell from tbe pen of the author, 1 lived in a bygone timeAway id the city Al-K> ris, With the poet and his friend, When the. earthquake burst on the people, And the world seemed at an end. Hark ! Cia.,h !— i nd the tempest has broken, With a frrc* ai^cl anfciy row. Uprooting the giant iron bark That grew but a rod from the door. Flash I flaHh !— the sheeted lightnings Make night sown bright as day. Did the Storm King ride on the tempest ? Were demons and elves at play t And down camo the rain in torrents, Threatening a deluge tn be, Rtif-hiug down the ironstone ridges To th« crtrzk and away to the 80*, Bounding along in its mad career, And exultiig to bo free. Was that a coo-ec ? I shuddered j Alone aud out in the storm Was anything human calling for help, Whilst I was sheltered and warm ? I eprang to tbe door to aid them, For truly the voices were hurnau. The thund«i pealed, I shrank back apalled, For a MOjnan is only a woman. Then I crept to the couch of my children, And being but woman I wept, And the voices arose o'er the pitiless storm, But through all the little ones slept. 'Twas ever at last in the dawning. The creffc came tumbling down A* two drenched travellers weeded their way O'er the bvida? th.it Wo to the tosvn. 'Tis years ago, the children Have all grown up since then — One sleeps who will not awake, And to-night I'm blone again. But I never hear the thunder peal Or see the lUhtniup and rain But I think cf the voices that rose o'er the storm Callius for helv, ana in vain. —Kose Ellen Easton. Armidale, February 1897.