The Coming of the Wind

An hour agone, and prostrate Nature lay Like some sore-smitten creature nigh to death, With feverish parched lips, with labouring breath, And languid eyeballs darkening to the day. A burning noontide ruled with merciless sway Earth, wave, and air; the ghastly-stretching heath, The sullen trees, the fainting flowers beneath, Drooped hopeless, shrivelling in the torrid ray;-- When, like a sudden, cheerful trumpet blown Far off by rescuing spirits, rose the wind Urging great hosts of clouds; the thunder's tone Breaks into wrath; the rainy cataracts fall. But, pausing, lo, behold Creation shrined In a new birth,--God's covenant clasping all!