"Oh father, let us hence--for hark,
  A fearful murmur shakes the air.
The clouds are coming swift and dark:--
  What horrid shapes they wear!
A winged giant sails the sky;
Oh father, father, let us fly!"

"Hush, child; it is a grateful sound,
  That beating of the summer shower;
Here, where the boughs hang close around,
  We'll pass a pleasant hour,
Till the fresh wind, that brings the rain,
Has swept the broad heaven clear again."

"Nay, father, let us haste--for see,
  That horrid thing with horned brow,--
His wings o'erhang this very tree,
  He scowls upon us now;
His huge black arm is lifted high;
  Oh father, father, let us fly!"

"Hush, child;" but, as the father spoke,
  Downward the livid firebolt came,
Close to his ear the thunder broke,
  And, blasted by the flame,
The child lay dead; while dark and still,
Swept the grim cloud along the hill.