Burning of the New England Villages

Through solid curls of smoke, the bursting fires
Climb in tall pyramids above the spires,
Concentring all the winds; whose forces, driven
With equal rage from every point of heaven,
Whirl into conflict, round the scantling pour
The twisting flames, and through the rafters roar
Suck up the cinders, send them sailing far,
To warn the nations of the raging war;
Bend high the blazing vortex, swell'd and curl'd,
Careering, brightening o'er the lustred world:
Seas catch the splendour, kindling skies resound,
And falling structures shake the smouldering ground.
Crowds of wild fugitives, with frantic tread,
Flit through the flames that pierce the midnight shade,
Back on the burning domes revert their eyes,
Where some lost friend, some perish'd infant lies.
Their maim'd, their sick, their age-enfeebled sires
Have sunk sad victims to the sateless fires;
They greet with one last look their tottering walls,
See the blaze thicken, as the ruin falls,
Then o'er the country train their dumb despair,
And far behind them leave the dancing glare;
Their own crush'd roofs still lend a trembling light,
Point their long shadows and direct their flight.
Till, wandering wide, they seek some cottage door,
Ask the vile pittance due the vagrant poor;
Or, faint and faltering on the devious road,
They sink at last and yield their mortal load.