Classic Poem

The song was done; they raised their eyes,
And saw between them and the skies
A figure standing dark and mute
That on a gleaming rifle leant,
And all his form from head to foot
Was painted on the firmament
So still he stood, the quickest eye
In its first gazing toward the sky
Glanced twice, before discerning if
The dusky shape were man or cliff.
At length, a voice—so high and loud
It seemed descending from the cloud—
Swept down along the swelling gale,
And made the stoutest hearer quail.
“I charge ye, on! I charge ye, speed!
And every gust proclaims the need.
By all the surest mountain signs,
By all the wailing of the winds,—
And by the sobbing of the pines,—
And by that avalanche which now
Gives warning through the vale below,—
By yonder rising cloud, whose wrath
Makes desperate the safest path,
I know the blast must soon perform
The bidding of the monarch storm.”