Hark! 't is the wheels of his wide rolling car,
They traverse the heavens and come from afar;
Sublime and majestic the dark cloud he rides,
The wing of the whirlwind he fearlessly strides,
The glance of his eye is the lighming's broad flame,
And the caverns re-echo his terrible name.

In the folds of his pinions, the wild whirlwinds sleep,
At his bidding they rush o'er the foam of the deep,
He speaks, and in whispers they murmur to rest,
And calmly they sink on the folds of his breast;
His seat is the mountain top's loftiest height;
He reigns there in darkness, the king of the night.