The Angel in the Cloud. Edwin W. Fuller

Behind the mountains reared the copper clouds

       Of summer skies, that whitened as they rose,

       Till bleached to snow, they drifted dreamily,

       Like gleaming icebergs, through the blue sublime.

       And as they, one by one, sailed far away,

       Methought they were as ships from Earth to Heaven,

       Thus slowly floating to the Eternal Port.

       The Thunder’s muttered growl my reverie broke,

       And looking toward the West, I saw a storm,

       With gloomy wrath, had thrown its dark-blue line

       Of breastworks, quiv’ring with each grand discharge

       Of its own ordnance, o’er th’ horizon’s verge.

       Some time it stood to gloat upon its prey,

       Then, girding up its strength, began its march.

       Extending far its black gigantic arms,

       It grimly clambered up the tranquil sky;

       Till, half-way up the arch, its shaggy brows

       Scowled down in rage upon the frightened earth;

       While through its wind-cleft portals sped the darts,

       That brightly hurtled through the sultry air.

       And down the mountain-sides the shadow crept,

       A dark veil spreading over field and wood,

       Thus adding gloom to Nature’s awful hush.

       The fleecy racks had fled far to the East,

       Where sporting safely in the gilding light,

       They mocked the angry monster’s cumbrous speed.

      Then, while I marked its progress, came a train,

       Of dark and doubting thoughts into my mind,

       And bitterly thus my reflections ran:

       Strange is the Providence that rules the world,

       That sets the Medean course of Nature’s laws;

       Sometimes adapting law to circumstance,

       But oftener making law fulfilled a curse.

       Yon brewing storm in verdant summer comes,

       When vegetation spreads its foliage sails,

       That, like a full-rigged ship’s, are easier torn;

       Why comes it not in winter, when the trees,

       With canvas reefed by Autumn’s furling frosts,

       Could toss in nude defiance to the blast?

       The murd’rous wind precedes the gentle shower

       And ere the suffering grain has quenched its thirst,

       It bows the heavy head, alone of worth,

       And from the ripening stalk wrings out the life,

       While gayly nod the heads of chaff unharmed.

       The rank miasma floats in summer-time,

       When man must brave its poisoned breath or starve;

       It hovers sickliest over richest fields

       While over sterile lands the air is pure;

       The tallest oak is by the lightning riven,

       The hateful bramble on the ground is spared;

       The crop man needs demands his constant work,

       The weeds alone spring forth without the plow;

       The sweetest flowers wear the sharpest thorns,

       The deadliest reptiles lurk in fairest paths!

       Wherever Nature shows her brightest smile,

       ’Tis but a mask to hide her darkest frown.

       The tropics seem an Eden of luscious fruits

       And flowers, and groves of loveliest birds, and lakes

       That mirror their gay plumage flitting o’er;

       Where man may live in luxury of thought,

       Without the crime of schemes, or curse of toil—

       The tropics seem a Hell, when all with life

       Are stifled with the foul sirocco’s breath;

       When from the green-robed mountain’s volcan top,

       A fire-fountain spouts its blazing jet

       Far up against the starry dome of Heaven;

       Returning in its vast umbrella shape,

       Leaps in red cataracts adown the slope,

       Shaves clean the mountain of its emerald hair,

       And leaves it bald with ashes on its head.

       Below, the valley is a crimson sea,

       Whose glowing billows break to white-hot foam;

       And as they surge amid the towering trees,

       They, tottering, bow forever to the waves;

       The leaves and branches, crackling into flame,

       Leave only clotted cinders floating there;

       The darting birds, their gaudy plumage singed,

       Fall fluttering in, with little puffs of smoke.

       The fleeing beasts are lapped in, bellowing,

       And charred to coal, drift idly with the tide.

       The red flood, breaking through the vale, rolls on

       Its devious way towards the sea; the glare

       Illuminating far its winding track,

       As if a devil flew with flaming torch,

       Or when an earthquake gapes its black-lined jaws,

       And, growling, gulps a city’s busy throng

       Into its greedy bowels. Or the sea bursts forth

       Its bands of rock, and laughing at “Thus far!”

       Rolls wildly over peopled towns, and homes

       In fancied safety; playing fearful pranks,

       O’er which to chuckle in its briny bed;

       Jeering the stones because they cannot swim,

       And crushing like a shell all work of wood;

       Docking the laden ships upon the hills,

       And tossing lighter craft about like weeds;

       Till, wearied with the spoiling, sinks to rest.

      Thus Nature to herself is but half kind,

       But over man holds fullest tyranny;

       And man, a creature who cannot prevent

       His own existence! Why not happy made?

       For surely ’twere as easy to create

       Man in a state of happiness and good,

       And keep him there, as to create at all.

       If misery’s not deserved before his birth,

       Then misery must from purest malice flow;

       Yet malice none assign to Providence.

       But some may say: Were man thus happy made,

       He would not be a person, but a thing,

       And lose the very seed of happiness,

       The consciousness of merit. Grant ’tis true!

       Then why does merit rarely meet reward?

       And why does there appear a tendency,

       Throughout the polity divine, to mark

       With disapproval all the good in