The tempest’s tramp he heard
As it scourged the night with a hissing rain—
But the Poet wrote never a word.
Then came a burst of martial mirth,
And mighty cannon roared
Till they shook the beams of the steadfast earth—
’Twas not the voice of the Lord.
In the Poet’s heart a memory rose
Of love’s first passionate thrill
That, kindling, grows as the red fire glows—