Our land is like a prairie overswept
With tempest flame, around the horizon whirled:
By fiery swords our harvest fields are reapt;
By maniac winds the blazing sheaves are hurled;
Where swift Destruction strides through cinders deep,
The blinding ashes, blown about the world,
Whiten our sackcloth where we sit and weep.
The whole broad sky is choked with fire and dust;
With reeling clouds of sulphur overrun,
What wonder that the bright star of your trust,
The noble planet of your minstrel dawn,
Should be this hour, by careful Heaven withdrawn,
Caught by a sudden and celestial gust
Into the glad embraces of the sun.