Her friend wakes not from his repose!
—From W. D. Lewis’s The Bakchesarian Fountain.
DURING A THUNDER-STORM
It thunders! Sons of dust, in reverence bow!
Ancient of days! Thou speakest from above;
Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now;
That hand which scatters peace and joy and love.
Almighty! Trembling like a child,
I hear Thy awful voice, alarmed, afraid,
I see the flashes of Thy lightning wild,