And he looked towards Sodom and Gomorrah, and lo! the smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a furnace.
(Written in her fourteenth year.)

O dread was the night, when o'er Sodom's wide plain
The fire of heaven descended;
For all that then bloomed, shall ne'er bloom there again,
For man hath his Maker offended.

The midnight of terror and woe hath passed by,
The death-spirit's pinions are furled;
But the sun, as it beams clear and brilliant on high,
Hides from Sodom's dark, desolate world.

Here lies but that glassy, that death-stricken lake,
As in mockery of what had been there;
The wild bird flies far from the dark nestling brake,
Which waves its scorched arms in the air.

In that city the wine-cup was brilliantly flowing,
Joy held her high festival there;
Not a fond bosom dreaming, (in luxury glowing,)
Of the close of that night of despair.

For the bride, her handmaiden the garland was wreathing,
At the altar the bridegroom was waiting,
But vengeance impatiently round them was breathing,
And Death at that shrine was their greeting.

But the wine-cup is empty, and broken it lies,
The lip which it foamed for, is cold;
For the red wing of Death o'er Gomorrah now flies,
And Sodom is wrapped in its fold.

The bride is wedded, but the bridegroom is Death,
With his cold, damp, and grave-like hand;
Her pillow is ashes, the slime-weed her wreath,
Heaven's flames are her nuptial band.

And near to that cold, that desolate sea,
Whose fruits are to ashes now turned,
Not a fresh-blown flower, not a budding tree,
Now blooms where those cities were burned.