'Twas early eve, the gentle rain
Sprinkled the fields from heaven's domain;
And distant winds, provoked, began to play,
When clouds, confused, seemed driven on this way.
Now calm, peculiar calm, and still!
The whirling storm quick struck the mill
And paint-shop too, and down with awful crash
They came, as quick as thought or lightning flash.
These clouds peculiar actions know,
Nor tell whence come, nor whither go,
Take funnel shapes, and start with dread intent,
With rotative and onward motion bent.
Hark! hark! the fire-bells ring the air,
How sad the sounds, distinct and clear!
The firemen rush through crowded streets pell-mell,
And prancing horses know the sound as well.
The paint-shop burned, the flame-driven smoke
Rose far and wide, and through clouds broke;
The drifting sparks with splendor glowed, but, soon,
Fast-falling, fell as leaves in autumn strewn.
The ill-starred mill lays ruined there,
And pinioned there lie maidens fair;
With tears to Heaven's God for aid they cry,
While brave hands rescue some, and others die.
Oh, woeful, dark and cruel night!
Heaven, pitying that sad sight,
Unveiled her glittering jewels, and they wept,
And, faithfully till morn, the vigil kept.