Scenes, whose cleft rocks and blasted deserts tell
Where pass’d th’ Eternal, where his anger fell!
Where oft his voice the words of fate reveal’d,
Swell’d in the whirlwind, in the thunder peal’d,
Or, heard by prophets in some palmy vale,
“Breathed still small” whispers on the midnight gale.
There dwelt her spirit—there her hand portray’d,
Midst the lone wilderness or cedar-shade,
Ethereal forms with awful missions fraught,
Or patriarch-seers absorb’d in sacred thought,