Hark! the Storm-daemon shrieks! — It thunders! — Lo!
How pale his cheeks, how wild his eye-balls grow,
Heard the first murmur; while he waits the crash,
And dreads to see the etherial meteors flash.
No shock of clouds, he thinks, no casual hand
Rolls the red bolt, or darts th' avenging brand;
'Tis Heaven's own voice in thunder bids him die,
And 'tis to blast him yon blue lightnings fly!
His fears were vain; the storm disperses; — true,
But who can answer what the next may do?
Though now sweet nature sleeps, and skies are fair,
Soon gathering clouds again may gloom the air;
Soon shafts divine, winged by celestial breath,
Again may glare, and the next shaft brings death!