The Prews, XII

At noon, the coach had yet twelve leagues to run: The air grew chilly, and dark clouds begun To form a leaden mass: entirely hid Was he, who in the morn ’rose round and red: A dreadful storm was evidently near; And distant rumblings fell upon the ear: Yon wary sheep were gath’ring in a hav’n, A shelter’d nook: the wind had now aris’n, And boist’rously swept o’er the open-plain: The sullen-featured clouds dispersed their rain Tempestuously, and all around was gloom: Increasing murm’rings in th’ ethereal room, And the first streak, shot thro’ the sombre-rent, Disturb’d an inside lady-occupant, Who sought for sympathy from those without: Th’ affrighted horses fain would turn about; But there’s no help, no refuge from the storm Until they gain’d “old Antrobus’s farm—” About three miles: when there the drenching-drops Combin’d the gale, and bent the grainéd-crops: Fork’d flittings quiver’d through the mournful vast; Th’ inured coachman even sat aghast; For Heaven’s artill’ry now had vollied forth A deaf’ning roar,—which shook the stable earth. At length the storm subsides; the clouds disperse; The welcome orb afresh begins t’immerse The varied herbage, and the waving folds; Encompassing the furze and heathery wolds: And all was calm again—save one poor soul, Whose head still rang with the last thunder-roll.