The writings of John Greenleaf Whittier, Volume 4.
John Greenleaf Whittier, Ed.

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[280]
     The Twilight of the Gods. The low-hung sky
Was black with ominous clouds, save where its rim
     Was fringed with a dull glow, like that which climbs
The crater's sides from the red hell below.
     Birds ceased to sing, and all the barn-yard fowls
Roosted; the cattle at the pasture bars
     Lowed, and looked homeward; bats on leathern wings
Flitted abroad; the sounds of labor died;
     Men prayed, and women wept; all ears grew sharp
To hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatter
     The black sky, that the dreadful face of Christ
Might look from the rent clouds, not as he looked
     A loving guest at Bethany, but stern
As Justice and inexorable Law.

Meanwhile in the old State House, dim as ghosts,
     Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut,
Trembling beneath their legislative robes.
     ‘It is the Lord's Great Day! Let us adjourn,’
Some said; and then, as if with one accord,
     All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport.
He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice
     The intolerable hush. “This well may be
The Day of Judgment which the world awaits;
     But be it so or not, I only know
My present duty, and my Lord's command
     To occupy till He come. So at the post
Where He hath set me in His providence,
     I choose, for one, to meet Him face to face,—
No faithless servant frightened from my task,
     But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls;