During a Thunder-Storm

It thunders! Sons of dust, in reverence bow!
Ancient of days! Thou speakest from above:
Thy right hand wields the bolt of terror now;
That hand which scatters peace and joy and love.
Almighty! trembling like a timid child,
I hear Thy awful voice--alarmed--afraid--
I see the flashes of Thy lightning wild,
And in the very grave would hide my head.

Lord! what is man? Up to the sun he flies--
Or feebly wanders through earth’s vale of dust:
There is he lost midst heaven’s high mysteries,
And here in error and in darkness lost:
Beneath the storm-clouds, on life’s raging sea,
Like a poor sailor--by the tempest tost
In a frail bark--the sport of destiny,
He sleeps--and dashes on the rocky coast.

Thou breathest:--and th’ obedient storm is still:
Thou speakest;--silent the submissive wave:
Man’s shatter’d ship the rushing waters fill,
And the husht billows roll across his grave.
Sourceless and endless God! compared with Thee,
Life is a shadowy momentary dream:
And Time, when view’d through Thy eternity,
Less than the mote of morning’s golden beam.