And, as the fleeting vision dies,
Loud thunders shake the closing skies.
Night, when rude blasts thy scenes deform,
O place me in the perilous storm!
While the moon labouring thro’ the clouds
By turns her light reveals and shrouds;
Torn from it’s trunk, when whirlwinds bear
The twisted ash aloft in air:
And some vast elm’s uprooted spoil
Ploughs in its headlong fall the soil.