 | [Poems by Hayne in] The book of the sonnet |  |
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[VIII. An hour agone!—and prostrate Nature lay]
An hour agone!—and prostrate Nature layLike some sore-smitten creature nigh to death,
With feverish, parchéd lips, with laboring 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 soon, behold Creation shrined
In a new birth,—God's Covenant clasping all!
| [Poems by Hayne in] The book of the sonnet | |