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Misgivings

 When ocean-clouds over inland hills 
Sweep storming in late autumn brown, 
And horror the sodden valley fills, 
And the spire falls crashing in the town, 
I muse upon my country's ills-- 
The tempest burning from the waste of Time 
On the world's fairest hope linked with man's foulest crime.
Nature's dark side is heeded now-- (Ah! optimist-cheer dishartened flown)-- A child may read the moody brow Of yon black mountain lone.
With shouts the torrents down the gorges go, And storms are formed behind the storms we feel: The hemlock shakes in the rafter, the oak in the driving keel.

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