THE WHIRLWIND
[For the poem that heads this chapter, I am indebted to my
brother, Mr. Strickland, of Douro, C.W.]
Dark, heavy clouds were gathering in the west,
Wrapping the forest in funereal gloom;
Onward they roll'd, and rear'd each livid crest,
Like Death's murk shadows frowning o'er earth's tomb.
From out the inky womb of that deep night
Burst livid flashes of electric flame.
Whirling and circling with terrific might,
In wild confusion on the tempest came.
Nature, awakening from her still repose,
Shudders responsive to the whirlwind's shock,
Feels at her might heart convulsive throes,
And all her groaning forests to earth's bosom rock.
But hark! - What means that hollow, rushing sound,
That breaks the death-like stillness of the morn?
Red forked lightnings fiercely glare around,
Sharp, crashing thunders on the winds are borne,
And see yon spiral column, black as night,
Rearing triumphantly its wreathing form;
Ruin's abroad, and through the murky light -
Drear desolation marks the spirit of the storm.
S.S.
The 19th of August came, and our little harvest was all safely
housed. Business called Moodie away for a few days to Cobourg.
Jenny had gone to Dummer, to visit her friends, and J. E - - had
taken a grist of the new wheat, which he and Moodie had threshed
the day before, to the mill.
