The clouds roll from the mountains; the storm sweeps o'er the plain;
And the boldest shrink in terror; the proudest shake with fear.
The scared soldiers are flying, 'mid hail and dashing rain;
And the ground thickly is covered with scattered shield and spear.

With loud burst, as of thunder, 'mid a wide whirl-wind of fire,
From the high heaven, in glory, descends the god of war.
The fearless hero, exulting, beholds his warrior sire;
And he mounts, joyous, beside him, the bright triumphal car.

Aloft sweeps it to heaven, and the white steeds, as they fly
Over clouds, rolling like surges, are dashing the lightnings around.
The eye in vain can follow their quick flight through the sky;
From mountain far to mountain, they leap at every bound.

Weep not your king, ye Romans! for he now is a god above.
Late, when alone, I saw him, and he rose like a tower of light.
Lofty and stern, he met me: he seemed like a son of Jove.
Far through the darkness glittered his armor, intensely bright.

" Go now, and tell my people! " he spake in solemn tone,
And as I heard, I trembled, and listened with holiest awe;
" I am their guardian genius; I dwell by the highest throne:
Bid them be wise and temperate, and reverent to faith and law! "
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.