At the wild havoc, like a monarch dazed
In woodland hoar, who felt the shrieking saw--
He, living oak, beheld his branches fall, with awe.
Chiefs, soldiers, comrades died. But still warm love
Kept those that rose all dastard fear above,
As on his tent they saw his shadow pass--
Backwards and forwards, for they credited, alas!
His fortune's star! it could not, could not be
That he had not his work to do--a destiny?
To hurl him headlong from his high estate,
Would be high treason in his bondman, Fate.
But all the while he felt himself alone,
Stunned with disasters few have ever known.
Sudden, a fear came o'er his troubled soul,
What more was written on the Future's scroll?
Was this an expiation? It must be, yea!
He turned to God for one enlightening ray.
"Is this the vengeance, Lord of Hosts?" he sighed,
But the first murmur on his parched lips died.
"Is this the vengeance? Must my glory set?"
A pause: his name was called; of flame a jet
Sprang in the darkness;--a Voice answered; "No!
Not yet."

Outside still fell the smothering snow.
Was it a voice indeed? or but a dream?
It was the vulture's, but how like the _sea-bird's scream._

TORU DUTT.