March, with his usual terrors armed...

March, with his usual terrors armed,

Resolved again to mark his flight

O'er the “Great Western,” which has swarmed

With human freight by day and night.

Leagued closely, with a mischievous crew,

Held by stern winter in reserve,

He up and down the doomed track flew,

But did not from his purpose swerve.

His eye he fixed upon a part —

A deep embankment on a slope,

And joy o'erflowed his chilly heart

While lingering near the town of Cope.

Musing, he to himself thus spoke:

“Here shall my darling scheme be tried;

I and my gang at one bold stroke

Can easily produce a slide.

“Better to serve my purpose foul

I'll fix it for the eighteenth night,

And raise such storm as may appal

The bravest soul that lacks daylight!”

Then, as by some mysterious spell

He called for elemental strife.

Forth came dread clouds as black as hell

That seemed with every mischief rife.

Impelled by many a howling blast,

Uniting in terrific roar,

They down their fearful contents cast,

And quickly a deep chasm tore.

The midnight train came rushing on,

Nor dreamt the passengers of death.

Nor thought perhaps that ere day's dawn

God would call some to yield their breath.

With furious speed the Iron Horse

Plunged headlong in the new-formed deep,

While raging elements their force

Spend as if laughing at the leap.

Dragged swiftly down is every car

Save one, the last of all the train,

And still the storm prolongs the war

With drifting snow or pelting rain.

Imagination scarce conceives

The shrieks, the groans, the heart-wrung wails,

Which rent the air! One yet believes

They did exceed what's told in tales.

And still the wind its keenest darts

Hurls at the living and the dead.

Blest then were those whose fearful hearts

Could cling to Christ who for them bled.