Sunday, October 28, 2012


The sun hung low on Uppoor plain,

The day was nigh its close,

And suddenly the winds broke out,

To violence from repose.


Never did blast so turbulent

Roar on that windy shore

No grove nor wall to meet the rage

The naked hamlet bore.


The vulture borne on mighty wings,

Did stagger in the air,

And making way to the nearest tree,

Nevermore a flight did dare.


Was it the howl of an evil sprite

That thundered angrily?

Was it the tumult ominous

Of its dread mutiny?


Deep flushed the west, the frightened sun

Was quenched before her ire;

And for a time the earth could seem

O’er-ruled by spectres dire.


The ruddy gloom still ruddier grow

On water, wall and tree,

The children screamed and clasped their mothers,

Dismayed in high degree.


Was it rain of blood or fire,

That in the west did fall?

No tree was seen nor cottage trim,

The red clouds shrouded all.


The winds prevailed and thick’ning clouds

In curling volumes rolled,

And spread on high their awful folds

With swiftness uncontrolled.


The clouds closed in, what was their freight?

The wond’ring people feared;

Was it hell-fire or wrath of Heaven?

The doubt was shortly cleared.


The clouds closed in, there was a shower

Of dust for minutes three,

And soon the steady winds blew off

The red clouds o’er the sea.


This portent bode, did folk avow,

Sure evil to the king,

And from the temple’s vault that night

Did plaintive prayers ring.



No comments:

Post a Comment