A THUNDER STORM.

The day was hot and the day was dumb,

Save for cricket's chirr or the bee's low hum,

Not a bird was seen or a butterfly,

And ever till noon was over, the sun

Glared down with a yellow and terrible eye;

Glared down in the woods, where the breathless boughs

Hung heavy and faint in a languid drowse,

And the ferns were curling with thirst and heat;

Glared down on the fields where the sleepy cows

Stood munching the grasses, dry and sweet.

Then a single cloud rose up in the west,

With a base of gray and a white, white crest;

It rose and it spread a mighty wing.

And swooped at the sun, though he did his best

And struggled and fought like a wounded thing.

And the woods awoke, and the sleepers heard,

Each heavily hanging leaflet stirred

With a little expectant quiver and thrill,

As the cloud bent over and uttered a word,—

One volleying, rolling syllable.

And once and again came the deep, low tone

Which only to thunder's lips is known,

And the earth held up her fearless face

And listened as if to a signal blown,—

A signal-trump in some heavenly place.

The trumpet of God, obeyed on high,

His signal to open the granary

And send forth his heavily loaded wains

Rambling and roaring down the sky

And scattering the blessed, long-harvested rains.