The storm is done--the lightning with its lust 
To rend the unhallowed dome in ruin dire; 
The purple heaps, from the rank chaos thrust 
On sheets of fell and inauspicious fire; 
The thunder bellowing loud on every bound; 
The hissing bolt, so tossed as to complete 
All permutations of Satanic sound; 
The flood that opened heaven and ransomed it. 
Benign now is that beatific blue. 
The flame that fires the hill is now remote 
From aught in evil. Clemency anew 
--Crowns every leaf, and sings in every throat. 
Shall, then, the rage of earth and heaven depart, 
And not the rancour of the unsensing heart?