Classic Poem

Cloud-born, I visit earth,
And on my way sublime
I give to terror birth,
Nor spare the sons of time,
But in my wrath sweep o'er the land,
And smite my foes with giant hand.

Oh, yes! with fearful stroke
I smite the forest's pride,
Uproot the stately oak,
And score the mountain's side,
And dash to earth, in frenzied hour,
The abodes of men, with fane and tower.

O'er land and sea I sweep,
Unchained in mad career,
Nor list to those who weep,
But hurl the lightning's spear;
And, wrapped in clouds that still grow black,
Still scatter wrecks along my track.

And thus, with crushing stride,
I leave a record lone
Of sorrow and of pride,
Nor care my deeds to own;
For passion fires my giddy brain
Until exhaustion ends my reign.

But still—if understood—
I do but fill my sphere;
Educe from evil good,
And mark the fruitful year:
Yet man distrusts the hand concealed
That points my path o'er flood and field.