Through the still clouds and on the breathless air,
Commanding to withhold! Earth has no hope:
It rests with Him.
Elm. Thou canst not tell me this!
Thou, father of my sons, within whose hands
Doth lie thy children’s fate.
Gon. If there have been
Men in whose bosoms nature’s voice hath made
Its accents as the solitary sound
Of an o’erpowering torrent, silencing