Classic Poem

The heavens grow dark before mine eyes,
The earth gives out a groaning sound;
The stormy blasts in fury rise,
And all obstructions quick confound;
They drive apart hills with their foot,
Huge trees they pluck up by the root:
I call on God with loudest tone, —
God is not in the tempest known.

As I behold, the meadows fair
Are breaking into mound and vale;
The earth is shaking everywhere,
The rocks roll down the hills like hail;
Dense clouds of smoke the sight appall,
With trembling voice on God I call, —
But in the earthquake's fearful round
His holy footsteps are not found.

On novel wonders still I gaze;
The vaults of heaven with lightning blaze,
The flames burst forth on every side,
And onwards rush, — a raging tide, —
Stirring the mind with direst fear, —
But not in fire does God appear.

Fair peace succeeds: the perfect calm
My prescient spirit fills with balm;
Like the young morn with glimmering light,
So burns with haze of silver bright
The presence pure of God:
The soul, responsive to the strain,
Breathes with unearthly life again;
Sweet stillness settles on the scene,
And, though deep distance intervene,
God's voice is heard abroad.