The riding Tempest—skyey cataracts
Hissing around him with rebellion vain?
Yea! and I lifted up my glorying voice
In an 'All hail;' when, wildly resonant,
As brazen chariots rushing from the war.
As passion'd waters gushing from the rock,
As thousand crashëd woods, the thunder cried:
And at his cry the forest tops were shook
As by the woodman's axe; and far and near
Stagger'd the mountains with a mutter'd dread.

All hail unto the lightning! hurriedly
His lurid arms are glaring through the air,
Making the face of heav'n to show like hell!
Let him go breathe his sulphur stench about,
And, pale with death's own mission, lord the storm!
Again the gleam—the glare: I turn'd to hail
Death's mission: at my feet there lay the dead!