The Warning

Storm out, ye trumpeters of death!
Along my holy mountain, blow!
Awaken larums wild with woe!
Blow, cruel trumpets! spare no breath!

For lo, Jehovah's day of might
Is nigh: a day of bitter doom:
A day of darkness and of gloom:
Of thickened clouds and heavy night.

Like morning mists, that overspread
The mountains, comes a northern swarm,
A people great and fierce, whose form
The living knew not, nor the dead.

Before their swiftness rolls a smoke;
Behind them angry flamings rise;
Before, the land is Paradise;
Behind, a waste devoid of folk.

Their guise is like to steeds who stride
And foam along the front of wars;
Their clamor, like to leaping cars
That thunder down the mountain side.

As mighty ones they run apace,
As chosen ones they mount and climb;
Each keeps his even rank and time,
Nor ever falters from his place.

They scale the battlemented walls,
They speed along the city streets;
Behold them in your fair retreats!
Behold them in your lordly halls!

The earth recoils before their tread
The sun and moon withdraw their light,
The starry armies faint in night,
The hollow welkins reel in dread.

Wherefore, renounce your ways of ill,
O house of Judah! Turn! Repent
With eager fasting and lament!
Perhaps your God will pardon still.