Tempestuously, and all around was gloom:

Increasing murm’rings in th’ ethereal room,

And the first streak, shot thro’ the sombre-rent,

Disturb’d an inside lady-occupant,

Who sought for sympathy from those without:

Th’ affrighted horses fain would turn about;

But there’s no help, no refuge from the storm

Until they gain’d “old Antrobus’s farm—”

About three miles: when there the drenching-drops

Combin’d the gale, and bent the grainéd-crops: