Of rain, as though the demons of the storm
Wept o’er the ruin which their fury wrought.
’Twas past—and o’er the eastern mountains rolled
The cloudy banners, and the chariot wheels
Of burning levin—by the tempest led,
(As some great conqueror from battle won,)
The serried hosts of falling waters passed
Beneath the rainbow’s bright triumphal arch;
And Nature shouted as the wing of peace
Fell softly o’er the wild and wasted track