| |
| | “Our song resounds a thunder storm once more— |
| “But Norwich’ far transcends Bostonia’s roar.” |
ON 1 Monday last, the sun with scorching ray, | |
| Pour’d down on Norwich rocks a red hot day, | |
| Along the streets no verdant weeds appear’d, | |
| No blades of grass the geese and goslings cheer’d, | |
| No brook, nor pond, mud-puddle, slough, nor pool, | 5 |
| Where ducks might paddle, and where pigs might cool: | |
| But all was so completely burnt and bare, | |
| That had old Babel’s king been pastured there, | |
| On such short feed, (I do not mean to joke) | |
| He never would have staid without a poke. | 10 |
| At length, slow rising up north-western skies, | |
| Some little clouds about Elijah’s size, | |
| Told us in hints and indications plain, | |
| That they were sensible we wanted rain. | |
| At first the teazing showers our patience tried, | 15 |
| By sailing northerly at distance wide, | |
| Till three o’clock—when lo! a wondrous cloud, | |
| Full dress’d in sable black like funeral shroud, | |
| Rose in the west, and climb’d its awful way, | |
| In proud defiance of the god of day, | 20 |
| Who soon perceived his rays were vainly shed, | |
| And therefore rashly stripp’d, and went to bed. | |
| But not much used to blankets in the heat | |
| Of June, his godship soon began to sweat, | |
| And snore, and puff, and piteously complain, | 25 |
| Which we mistook for thunder, wind and rain. | |
| This reverend cloud came on with dreadful rumpus, | |
| Wafted by winds which blew all round the compass, | |
| And to the mind (the medium of sight) | |
| A scene presented pregnant with affright. | 30 |
| For overcharged with true electric shot, | |
| (Which all who ’ve felt, well know are rather hot) | |
| As musket loaded deep on training day, | |
| When Captain Flip commands to “bouze away,” | |
| From breech to muzzle splits in splinters dire— | 35 |
| The cloud incessant burst in streams of fire; | |
| While o’er the inky vault the lustre spread, | |
| And streak’d the concave with surprising red. | |
| Some of these streaks were follow’d by a roar, | |
| Which came so near the streak that went before, | 40 |
| That if the first the earth did ever find, | |
| The latter surely was not far behind. | |
| And though we have not heard which way they went, | |
| What place they stopp’d at, where their fury spent, | |
| Whene’er they ’re found, like birds of equal feather, | 45 |
| I ’ll lay my ears you ’ll find them both together. | |
| The ardent cloud continued to unlade, | |
| Like sea-sick man in violent cascade, | |
| Till evening shades, afraid to see the light, | |
| Took care to spread the curtains of the night, | 50 |
| But all in vain—old Sol, his sweating o’er, | |
| Kick’d off the clothes, and still’d his tuneful snore, | |
| Just raised his head and oped his drowsy eyes, | |
| And gave one flash of lightning through the skies, | |
| When lo! the stars who thought the night begun, | 55 |
| In wild amazement started back and run; | |
| While nodding Phœbus, trimm’d in slumbering cap, | |
| Yawn’d out a smile and took his evening nap. | |
| But Luna, somewhat wiser than the rest, | |
| Stepp’d softly out, in pink and silver dress’d, | 60 |
| And trode with cautious step the western way, | |
| To see if all were safe where Phœbus lay: | |
| For well she knew if Sol again should rise, | |
| And catch her idly flaunting round the skies, | |
| He’d make her strip to gratify his ire, | 65 |
| And dress herself in every day’s attire. | |
| But when she found he certainly reposed, | |
| His lamp in truth burnt out, his eye-lids closed, | |
| Round heaven’s high arch her car celestial roll’d, | |
| O’er starry pavements gemm’d with living gold, | 70 |
| From orb to orb her fiery coursers flew, | |
| And new born splendors clothed the etherial blue. | |
| The feather’d tribe o’erjoy’d to lose the storm, | |
| Now ventured forth in many a cackling swarm. | |
| And fill’d with noise upraised the plumy wing, | 75 |
| And stretch’d on tiptoe oped their throats to sing, | |
| And all around, from every stump and tree, | |
| Proceeded songs of praise, and songs of glee; | |
| While men and beasts stood staring all the while, | |
| To see creation ope her mouth and smile. | 80 |
| The earth has got of rain a good supply, | |
| And everything is wet that late was dry— | |
| Now nature’s self with mighty legs and voice, | |
| May skip in earthquakes and in songs rejoice, | |
| While man, the master of the tuneful throng, | 85 |
| Shall sound the pitch, and lead the choral song. | |
| |
| P. S. As such a storm does rarely fly | |
| For nought across the azure sky, | |
| ’T is said that on the self-same night | |
| Three cows were kill’d at Bolton by ’t! | 90 |
| Poor Mr Wythe two years ago, | |
| Had his barn burnt exactly so. | |
