That night, when the Storm King was riding on high, And the red shafts of lightning gleamed bright through the sky, The church of the village, “the Temple of God,” Was struck, for the want of a good lightning rod, And swiftly descending, the element dire Set the minister’s house, close beside it, on fire, While he peacefully slumbered, with never a fear Of the terrible work of destruction so near. There were Mary, and Hannah, and Tommy, and Joe, All sweetly asleep in the bedroom below, While their father was near, with their mother at rest, (Like the wife of John Rogers with “one at the breast.”) But Alice, the eldest, a gentle young dove, Was asleep all alone, in the room just above; And when the wild cry of the rescuer came, She only was left to the pitiless flame. The fond mother counted her treasures of love, When lo! one was missing--“O Father above!” How madly she shrieked in her agony wild-- “My Alice! My Alice! O, save my dear child!” Then down on his knees fell the Parson, and prayed That the terrible wrath of the Lord might be stayed. Said Peter McGuire, “Prayer is good in its place, But then it don’t suit _this_ particular case.” He turned down the sleeves of his red flannel shirt, To shield his great arms all besmutted with dirt; Then into the billows of smoke and of fire, Not pausing an instant, dashed Peter McGuire. O, that terrible moment of anxious suspense! How breathless their watching! their fear how intense! And then their great joy! which was freely expressed When Peter appeared with the child on his breast. A shout rent the air when the darling he laid In the arms of her mother, so pale and dismayed; And as Alice looked up and most gratefully smiled, He bowed down his head and he wept like a child. O, those tears of brave manhood that rained o’er his face, Showed the true Grace of Nature, and the Nature of Grace; ’Twas a manifest token, a visible sign, Of the indwelling life of the Spirit Divine. Consider such natures, and then, if you can, Preach of “total depravity” innate in man. Talk of blasphemy! why, ’tis profanity wild! To say that the Father thus cursed his own child. Go learn of the stars, and the dew-spangled sod, That all things rejoice in the _goodness_ of God-- That each thing created is good _in its place_, And Nature is but the _expression_ of Grace. HYMN OF THE ANGELS.