The air was stagnant, cold, and dark, and dull, Heavy as morn to aching senses, when Some dreamer wakes to feel a load of care Pressed back upon his memory, and hastes To close his eyes, that he may cast it off, And dream once more of happiness and hope. Like molten lead along the sullen sky, Gray clouds hung drooping, for the summer wind Seemed frozen, and its restless wing was dead. Strong, swift, and chainless as some maddening thought, There came the spirit of a change, which seemed To wave aloft the banner and the sword Of a destroying angel—withering winds Rose, winged with lightning, and the brazen sky Was one red desert, peopled with a host Of burning shadows, lurid shapes of hell, That wildly mingled with the falling stars, And whirled in flaming chaos up to heaven! Clouds heated to a whiteness writhed and tossed Along the horizon’s verge of liquid fire, And, from their snowy foldings rent and torn, Gushed forth a stream of meteors, like deep gouts Of crimson blood from Beauty’s mangled bosom. Bright glowed the valleys, and the eternal hills Seemed towering to the brassy vault of heaven In gorgeous pyramids of living flame— A mighty holocaust, and offered high On the red altars of a crumbling world To some fierce god of elemental fire. It flamed—it faded—but “the Lord was not” Upon the burning pinions of its strength; His glance, which withers dynasties and thrones— His passing breath, where hangs the fate of kings And mighty nations, kindled up the sky, And lightened o’er a terror-stricken world. Noontide poured down upon the sleeping earth And dreaming waves a long and fervid kiss Of panting passion, and the Orient’s heart Glowed in its languid atmosphere of love. The storm, the earthquake, and the flashing fire. Had left it placid as the orbéd brow Of slumbering Beauty—through the fragrant air There came no sounding sweep of angel wings, No frowning fury rushing on to tread The wrathful wine-press of avenging God; But the rich music of a “still, small voice,” From the far arches of the vaulted sky Stole slowly earthward, and as though the breath Of God were sweeping o’er the Æolian line Of universal being, till it thrilled A new creation into loving life, Hushed was the chiming of each starry sphere, The universe of harmony was dumb, For in the music of that “still small voice,” Was blent the omnipresence of the Lord. The prophet shrouded up his lofty brow Deep in his mantle, and his soul grew still With silent worship, as his thirsting heart Drank the rich murmur of that mystic tone Which told the mighty presence of his God!