These are my lightnings!—fill’d with anguish vain,
Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,
They smite with agonies.
I, that with soft control,
Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,
I am the avenging one!—the arm’d, the strong—
The searcher of the soul!
I, that shower dewy light
Through slumbering leaves, bring storms—the tempest birth
Of memory, thought, remorse! Be holy, Earth!