Grandly, and a rich storm in music score us:—
But ev'n his music seemed composed and low,
When we were handled by this Hailstone Chorus;
Whilst thunder rumbled, with its awful sound,
And frozen comfits rolled along the ground—
As big as bullets:—Lord! how they did batter
Our crazy tiles:—and now the lightning flashed
Alternate with the dark, until the latter
Was rarest of the two!—the gust too dashed
So terribly, I thought the hail must shatter