To the Volcano Cotopaxi.
By Delwin Rees Buckner
THE snow is reddened by the flames at night;
Like vapor-clouds thy smoke ascends by day,
Fresh from the furnace God hath stored away
Within earth’s center, hidden from our sight.
Thou Cotopaxi, but a chimney art,
Yet on thy slopes the Inca feels the heat,
Knows that an oven burns beneath his feet
And feels the throbs grow quicker in his heart.
And who is he that can not comprehend
That God, as just, must have a Day of Doom?
Now He reserves His fiery arsenal,
Which, like a flood, will issue at the end.
Then, Cotopaxi, too, thou wilt consume
When God ariseth and consumeth all.