The warm shower melts the crystal drops that hide
The earth’s brown bosom; and the foaming brooks
Go singing down the hills, and through the vales,
Like happy children when their task is done.
A few bright flashes, and hoarse, rattling peals,
And then, amid the broad and crimson glow,
O’er western hills, a golden spot appears,
That spreads and brightens as the tempest wanes,
Like Heaven’s first smile upon the dying’s face.
’Tis gone, the rumbling of its chariot wheels