His awful right hand bears,

Till the dull worm of earth

No worse in darkness fares

Than things of brighter birth,

Nor in the lapse of hell

All everlasting gloom,

Help us to suffer well

These dark days of our doom.

Swift Smiter of extremes,

Who only lettest us live;

Who feedest with bright dreams

At midnight, and dost give

Even to the poorest wretch

Of this distressful land

A draught, a rag, a stretch

Of soil, a loving hand,

Ours too the guardian Thou;

And if no other good

Thou wilt bestow, endow

At least with fortitude.

II

Long, long the barren years.

A deeper darkness grows;

The road-side tree appears

No more; the shadows close.

Lost, I sit down with night

And weave night-horrors here—

Sad voices heard in flight,

And warnings in the air,

And convocations of thunder

Above tumultuous woods,

And white stars weeping under

Black threatening of clouds.