Poem by Anne Hunter

Song 15. When hollow bursts the rushing wind

WHEN hollow bursts the rushing wind,
And heavy beats the shower,
This anxious, aching bosom finds
No comfort in its power.
For ah, my love! it little knows
What thy hard fate may be;
What bitter storm of fortune blows,
What tempests trouble thee.

A wayward fate hath twin'd the thread
On which our days depend,
And darkling in the checker'd shade.
She draws it to an end.
But whatsoe'er may be thy doom,
The lot is cast for me;
Or in the world, or in the tomb,
My heart is fix'd on thee.

1. Ode to the Conduit Vale, Blackheath
2. The Spirit’s Song
3. Sonnet after the Death of Laura
4. The Genius of the Mountains of Balagata
5. November, 1784

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