On his low couch
The fettered soldier sank, and, with deep awe,
Listened the fearful sounds:  with upturned eye,
To the great gods he breathed a prayer; then, strove
To calm himself, and lose in sleep awhile
His useless terrors.  But he could not sleep: 
His body burned with feverish heat; his chains
Clanked loud, although he moved not; deep in earth
Groaned unimaginable thunders; sounds,
Fearful and ominous, arose and died,
Like the sad mornings of November’s wind,
In the blank midnight.  Deepest horror chilled
His blood that burned before; cold, clammy sweats
Came o’er him; then anon, a fiery thrill
Shot through his veins.  Now, on his couch he shrunk
And shivered as in fear; now, upright leaped,
As though he heard the battle trumpet sound,
And longed to cope with death.

He slept, at last,
A troubled, dreamy sleep.  Well had he slept
Never to waken more!  His hours are few,
But terrible his agony.

Soon the storm
Burst forth; the lightnings glanced; the air
Shook with the thunders.  They awoke; they sprung
Amazed upon their feet.  The dungeon glowed
A moment as in sunshine—­and was dark: 
Again, a flood of white flame fills the cell,
Dying away upon the dazzled eye
In darkening, quivering tints, as stunning sound
Dies throbbing, ringing in the ear.

With intensest awe,
The soldier’s frame was filled; and many a thought
Of strange foreboding hurried through his mind,
As underneath he felt the fevered earth
Jarring and lifting; and the massive walls,
Heard harshly grate and strain:  yet knew he not,
While evils undefined and yet to come
Glanced through his thoughts, what deep and cureless wound
Fate had already given.—­Where, man of woe! 
Where, wretched father! is thy boy?  Thou call’st
His name in vain:—­he can not answer thee.

Loudly the father called upon his child: 
No voice replied.  Trembling and anxiously
He searched their couch of straw; with headlong haste
Trod round his stinted limits, and, low bent,
Groped darkling on the earth:—­no child was there. 
Again he called:  again, at farthest stretch
Of his accursed fetters, till the blood
Seemed bursting from his ears, and from his eyes
Fire flashed, he strained with arm extended far,
And fingers widely spread, greedy to touch
Though but his idol’s garment.  Useless toil! 
Yet still renewed:  still round and round he goes,
And strains, and snatches, and with dreadful cries
Calls on his boy.

Mad frenzy fires him now. 
He plants against the wall his feet; his chain
Grasps; tugs with giant strength to force away
The deep-driven staple; yells and shrieks with rage: 
And, like a desert lion in the snare,
Raging to break his toils,—­to and fro bounds. 
But see! the ground is opening;—­a blue light
Mounts, gently waving,—­noiseless;—­thin and cold
It seems, and like a rainbow tint, not flame;
But by its luster, on the earth outstretched,
Behold the lifeless child! his dress is singed,
And, o’er his face serene, a darkened line
Points out the lightning’s track.